The First Sacred Duty
by Seacook
Summary: An attacked alien vessel sends out a distress signal; when the Enterprise crew tries to help they are mistaken for the attackers. "Glaring down at the engineer, the growling warrior raised his hand, claws fully extended." Chapter 8 amended and reposted; Chapter 9 now up. (UPDATE: glitches in 9 fixed and chapter reposted...)
1. Chapter 1

DISCLAIMER: Characters and aliens from _Star Trek: Enterprise_ do not belong to me and I'm making no profit from their use.

RATING: Due to language and pending violence this one is rated M.

TIME: Set early in the series but post-_Shuttlepod One._

SUMMARY: After being attacked an alien vessel sends out a distress signal, but when the Enterprise crew tries to help they are mistaken for the attackers. For this species only blood will buy forgiveness; unfortunately for Lt. Reed, much of it will be his.

This story did not originally start out like this—I pretty much started it with Lt. Reed and a crewman under his command trapped on an alien ship, but disliked the idea of yet another nameless, faceless background character who existed solely to be "red-shirted". Plus, for whatever reasons, the idea popped into my head that Malcolm cannot possibly be the only guy in Starfleet that has a strained relationship with his father. Plot bunnies are restless creatures, and before I knew it I had the crewman's life history and these extra chapters that happen before the crew encounters the aliens. I'm hoping you'll find the first few chapters to be worth your while...I'll try to merge some of the shorter ones together so there will be fewer of them.

**NOTE**: A _portaledge _is a portable platform that mountain- and/or rock climbers use for camping or sleeping while on climbs. If you wanna see something _REALLY_ scary, type the word into a search engine and look for videos to see them in use...

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He'd lost track of the number of times he'd gone up and down the rope but judging from the sensation in his arms and legs he'd been at it for quite some time. Nothing like a midnight climb to relax a fellow, even if he could only climb to the ceiling of the abandoned gym and back. He secured the rope so he wouldn't descend further and allowed himself to dangle a few feet below the ceiling.

It was the first time he'd fully relaxed in over two weeks. Well, truth be told, he'd been _plenty _relaxed one night last week, but that had been the result of too much scotch and too little food or sleep. Not a healthy mix, that. He remembered recording a rambling, depressing message to Grandma'am confessing his "transgression" against the ship's Armory Officer, and thought he even remembered expressing a desire to resign and come home. Didn't quite recall exactly _what_ he'd recorded, actually, but it had felt at least a _little_ cathartic. It was a bit of a ritual for him when things went wrong: he'd record a message to Grandma'am giving all the horrid details, then delete the message. Somehow, pressing the delete button made him feel as though the problem had been washed away, or had at least been diminished to a more manageable size. The "phantom letters" and climbing were the two things that had always helped him clear his mind. Of course, he'd have to compose a _real_ letter to Grandma'am soon—with all the extra shifts he'd been working he hadn't kept up his correspondence. He resolved to record—and send—a message to her as soon as he got through climbing.

Closing his eyes he leaned back, remembering overnight climbs when he would rig a portaledge midway up and sleep suspended above the earth. He found himself wishing that he could be dangling from the rock face, feeling the breeze nudging at him. A troubled sigh escaped him—if the lieutenant had anything to say about it, the opportunity for climbing back on Earth would probably come sooner rather than later.

He'd really botched it this time. What made it all the worse (besides the fact that he'd done nothing wrong) was that he admired and respected Lt. Reed, and had hoped to earn some measure of respect in return. He wanted to impress the man at least a little. "Not bloody likely to happen _now_," he muttered, then mentally kicked himself for using one of the words that had gotten him into trouble in the first place. "Gotta stop talkin' like that," he yawned, tiredly scrubbing his fingers through his curly red hair. Sighing, he considered his situation.

Wrongly accused of imitating the lieutenant, he'd been enduring the man's wrath with nary a complaint. Double shifts? No problem. Recalibrate targeting sensors for the eighteenth time? Yes sir right away sir. Scrub the Armory top-to-bottom with a toothbrush? Well, it hadn't gone quite that far _yet_, but at this point it wouldn't surprise him. God knew he'd been assigned every other shit job the lieutenant could concoct for him. It hadn't taken David long to learn that beneath his CO's cold exterior there beat a heart of granite. Even working beyond all the extra shifts he'd been assigned had done nothing to soften Lt. Reed's opinion of him. He was almost to the point where he was seriously contemplating either transfer or resignation but, despite his drunken ramblings in that deleted letter, quitting was just not a viable option. Quitting meant admitting that Father had been right about him, and a slow death at the hands of his pissed-off CO was preferable to that.

What to do now? The love he'd once felt for his job had fled almost entirely, leaving an empty pit in his heart; his admiration for his CO had transformed into dread. Reed's voice, which David had once found so comforting, now only served to make his stomach tighten into a hard, painful knot. He also felt… what? Fear? Yeah, fear was not too strong a word, he supposed. If looks could kill he'd have been dead at least a dozen times over by now. And though he didn't think the lieutenant would really do him any bodily harm he knew that, despite size differences, the man was physically more than capable of doing so. That, at least, separated the lieutenant from Father by at least a degree or two. For not only was Father _capable _of inflicting bodily harm, he was more than willing to, and at times actually seemed to enjoy doing so. But David had eventually been able to escape from Father. From Lt. Reed there was no escape, short of an airlock.

Or he could cut the rope.

He dismissed the thought instantly. He'd seen the results of a climbing fall firsthand, and it was most assuredly _not_ a pretty way to go. Besides, he was fairly sure that he simply wasn't high enough to guarantee death on impact, and it wasn't the sort of thing one would want to botch. Not to mention that it would confirm Father's gleeful assessment that he was too weak-willed and eager to quit when a situation got a little too tough. No, if he was destined to die in space it would most assuredly _not_ be by his own hand.

"Looks like you were right after all, Father," David muttered to the empty room, a faint Irish accent creeping into his bitter voice. "Once a screw-up, always a screw-up. You'd laugh yer arse off if you could see me now, wouldn'tcha? You said I wasn't cut out fer it, and maybe you were right. Maybe I'm not. But I'll be damned if either you _or _Lieutenant Reed will ever hear me admit it. I won't give _either _of you the bloody satisfaction."

Father had tried to instill in his sons and daughter the belief that emotions were at best a hindrance and at worst an outright enemy. Laughter was tolerated (though barely) and tears were positively verboten. Privately the siblings joked that there must be Vulcan blood coursing through their father's veins. The edicts against emotional displays and outbursts were made all the more ironic by Father's propensity for outbursts on a grand and often terrifying scale. David recalled when Father's disposition had been at its worst. No matter what he'd done to please him, Father's mood remained constant—unspeakably foul and sometimes dangerous. By that time his older brothers were gone; his sister had always been off-limits. That left David as the man's sole target.

Only when he had come to the realization that none of his efforts would ever measure up had he been able to tune out the insults and even the blows that had eventually landed on him. Just do what needs to be done and block out the rest. Indifference born of the knowledge that it didn't matter how well he performed had inexplicably, impossibly, crossbred with determination to complete the required tasks, and had helped him endure. Though he hated the way it had made him feel it was the only thing that worked with Father. He had to stop _caring_ about the job—and the people involved—and simply _do_ it. Complete whatever task he was given then move on to the next one, with the knowledge that (as with Father) even if the job were done flawlessly flaws would be found. David had come to think of it as "survival mode." It had worked with Father and should theoretically work with the lieutenant. It had to. Getting the job done was all that could matter from now on; emotions could not be allowed to get in the way.

He'd been wrongly accused of imitating the lieutenant but he realized, with a measure of grim amusement, that he was going to have to imitate Subcommander T'Pol. Equally amusing in a twisted way was the secret knowledge that the lieutenant was doing a near spot-on impression of Father. If the man tossed a few pieces of furniture around the Armory the likeness would be flawless. Well, except for his lacking the height and bulk of Father, but the lieutenant didn't seem to need those to be properly intimidating. David laughed bitterly.

"Well, Lieutenant, yer gonna hafta find yer entertainment someplace else, I guess," he grimly announced to the empty gym. As he hung there he felt tears trying to force their way out, and could almost hear Father's mocking voice chastising him for such weakness. Swallowing hard he squeezed his eyes shut, forcing the tears back and fighting to control his breathing.

"I will _not_ cry," he hissed through clenched teeth. "Don't bend, don't break, never cry. Don't bend, don't break, never cry." He chanted his father's mantra over and over until the urge to weep subsided.

When he'd finally reigned in the bout of melancholy he felt an utter hollowness within. Deciding that he'd best finish his climb so he could get back to his quarters and pretend to get some sleep David shifted his weight, raising himself to an upright position so he could begin his descent. Loosening the line so he could start down his stomach lurched as the rope suddenly slipped, sending him plummeting toward the deck below.

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She played the message again, frowning. She'd been overjoyed when she found it waiting for her—as she felt with the arrival of all her grandson's letters—but after playing it she'd become irritated. And the more she pondered it the angrier she'd become. Her bright blue eyes had darkened considerably; had her husband been there and seen the look in her eyes he'd have known to beat a hasty retreat. Edward had learned early in their relationship to never rouse the wrath of an Irish woman, and most certainly never _this_ Irish woman.

David's previous letters had been filled with the usual details of his experiences on his beloved starship, no matter how seemingly mundane, and always included at least one anecdote about his vaunted CO. The boy was so happy there, happier than he'd probably ever been in his life. And Lord knew he deserved to be happy—the lad had earned it, after all he'd had to endure at the hands of that no-account father of his. Her son-in-law had always been stern, probably due to his military upbringing, but as the years passed and David showed little inclination to follow his father's plans for him, the more beastly the man had become. _'Bloody hell, Edward is a Navy man and he was __never__ like that!'_ Indeed not, for Edward had no doubt known instinctively that his beloved Colleen would not have hesitated to literally toss him out on his ear if he had.

She stopped the playback midway through, pondering David's predicament and feeling at least partially responsible for it. When her grandchildren were young she'd seized every available opportunity to have them stay with her, claiming grandmotherly privilege. Anything to help them escape their increasingly mean-spirited sod of a father. And, though she _did_ have enough self-control to refrain from speaking ill of the man within earshot of the children, she'd done little to reign in what Edward tactfully referred to as the "colorful phrases" she used in common conversation. (Being career Navy, Edward knew "colorful" when he heard it, whether in English or Gaelic. And he also knew that his wife could out-swear any Navy man he'd ever known, Royal or otherwise.)

Colleen had never been one to hold back, always opting to voice her opinion and often in a manner that caused those in close proximity to blanch noticeably. David more than the other children had, perhaps inevitably, picked up some of her favorite turns of phrase and occasionally peppered his conversations with a few favorites from what the children had all come to call "Grandma'am's Lexicon." Though David didn't realize it he'd even picked up a slight bit of his grandmother's brogue, which came out stronger when he was either exhausted, flustered, or drunk.

As soon as she'd learned of David's posting on _Enterprise_ Colleen had begun scouring databases, learning everything she could about the ship and (more importantly) the crew. It had been the same when she'd fallen in love with Edward—she'd felt it vitally important to know exactly to whom she was entrusting the life of her then-future husband. It was now equally important to know who was looking after her David. Consequently the highlights of the senior staffs' biographies were soon committed to memory, with the officer directly above her grandson earning special scrutiny.

His name had been immediately familiar to her and she'd prayed that she was wrong. She wasn't, and she had been nearly overwhelmed by the sense of foreboding that had washed over her. A vast majority of her lexicon (both English and Gaelic) had flashed through her mind and across her lips when she'd confirmed her suspicions, remembering her blessedly infrequent encounters with the man's family. But his service record had helped put her at ease, and when David's missives from the ship had begun coming she had relaxed a great deal more.

David loved the ship, loved the work, and was getting along famously with his crewmates. And the CO he described was, Praise Be, nothing like what she'd dreaded. Where she'd expected to hear of an insensitive, bollocks-for-brains lout she found instead descriptions of an admirable, cultured man; firm but fair, intelligent, with a razor-sharp wit and an accent that David said reminded him of his Grandsir. It hadn't taken long for David to develop an immense respect for him, and Colleen in turn had begun to like and even trust the man she'd heard so much about, coming to believe that perhaps the father of David's CO hadn't _totally _ruined him after all. But now…?

Lips pressed into a thin, angry line and blue eyes blazing, Colleen resolved to knock some of the starch out of one Lieutenant Malcolm Reed.

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"Still miffed at Saunders, huh?" Trip asked, setting down his pie and milk as he joined Malcolm at the only occupied table in the Mess Hall. A noncommittal 'hmph' was the only reply from across the table.

"Y'know," the engineer continued, undeterred, "it's been over two weeks. If yer gonna ride him about it much longer, you should prob'ly at least get a saddle for him."

That made the sullen Armory Officer look up from his cup of tea, annoyed that he had to explain himself. "The man has to learn respect for his superiors. I'll be damned if I'll have my staff doing impersonations of me behind my back. I will _not_ be mocked," he added, shaking his spoon at the engineer for emphasis before using it to stir his tea.

"An' workin' the guy to death is gonna teach him to respect you?" Trip asked before filling his mouth with a huge bite of his dessert.

Malcolm snorted indignantly as he lifted his cup. "I'm _not_ 'working the guy to death', Commander." He paused to sip his tea before continuing. "And how, may I ask, would _you _feel if your Engineering staff ran about impersonating _you_?" Trip shrugged, swallowing the mouthful of pie and waiting for Malcolm to take another sip of tea before answering. He wanted the timing to be perfect.

"Most of 'em already do from time to time. Hell, you should hear Hess—her imitation of me is almost as good as the one _you _do. Maybe better."

Malcolm choked on his drink. _'Timing really __is__ everything,'_ Trip thought.

"I do _not_—"

"You _do _and you _know_ it," Trip insisted, pointing his fork at Malcolm and grinning. "Don't hear me _complainin'_, do ya? An' I'm sure not makin' any of you work double and triple shifts for over two weeks just to get even with you."

"I'm _not_ 'getting even'…and I'm not working him any harder than I work myself."

"Thought you didn't want him imitatin' you," Trip teased. "Besides," he added, growing serious, "from what I've heard he _wasn't_ makin' fun of ya. Accordin' to the folks I've talked to, he talks like that when somethin's gone wrong. Hess heard him spout an earful a couple months ago an' he told her about his Irish grandmother's knack fer swearing. Travis says it's even more impressive to hear him cut loose in Gaelic. Hoshi had a blast workin' on the translations." Trip paused to wash down another bite of pie. "Spent alotta time with his mama's folks when he was a kid, an' apparently Granny wasn't too bashful when it came to expressin' herself. So, near as I can tell, yer pissed off at him fer impersonatin' his gran'ma."

"Hang on—did you say _triple _shifts?" Malcolm asked. Trip nodded. "Trip, I _never _assigned him triples."

"Well, scuttlebutt is that he's been _workin' _triples, assigned or not. You didn't know?" Reed shook his head silently. Tucking another forkful of pie into his mouth, Trip studied Malcolm as the man cast his gaze into his mug of tea. When his friend remained silent for what he deemed too long, Trip swallowed then broke the silence. "You should _talk _to him, Malcolm," he gently urged. "Clear the air. Hell, at least find out for sure which one of ya he was imitatin', you or Granny."

Reed shook his head. "It's the middle of the night, Trip."

"Well, I _didn't _really mean for you to do it right this _second_. Just…next time ya see him. 'Cuz even if he _was_ being disrespectful, you bein' on him about it fer so long just…well…it makes ya look petty and vindictive. And I know yer not. At least, not usually."

Malcolm stared into his mug a long while before meeting the gaze of his friend. He smiled ever so slightly, sighing as Trip shoveled in the last bite of dessert. "Mistah Tuckah," he said softly, "do you have _any_ idea how _annoying_ it is when you're right?"

Trip nodded, a pie-filled Cheshire Cat grin plastered across his face. "M-hmm," he hummed around the mouthful of food.


	2. Chapter 2

He'd just begun to fall asleep when he heard a chirp from the monitor on his desk, signaling an incoming message. Malcolm glared groggily at the offending device before forcing himself out of bed and across the room. He stared at the monitor as it chirped again, sleepily reviewing the sender information, and frowned as his tired brain tried to place the name. _'Berrington. Why is that name familiar?' _When his mind finally recognized it Malcolm snapped wide-awake, stomach turning somersaults. There was an acquaintance of his father's named Edward Berrington. From the Royal Navy. _Admiral _Berrington. _'But why would he be calling __me__, especially at this time of night?'_ Malcolm wondered. If something had happened to his father certainly Mum or Maddie would make the call. Unless…something had happened to all three? No, that couldn't be it—Starfleet would be contacting him if that were the case.

He'd only met the Admiral once, when he was a boy, at some fancy function or another. And he'd made every effort to not draw undue attention to himself because he knew the consequences of causing his father any public embarrassment; despite the care he'd taken he'd failed quite spectacularly. No, this had to be a different Berrington. Had to be. '_Please God, let it be a different Berrington.'_ Swallowing nervously, Malcolm tried to smooth his tousled hair with his fingers before activating the monitor. The tiny elderly woman staring back at him was most assuredly _not_ Admiral Berrington. Her blue eyes sparkled as she studied him, silently sizing up the young man.

Finally, a very puzzled Malcolm broke the silence. "May I…help you?"

The corners of the woman's mouth drew up into a smile. "Well now, that all depends," she replied sweetly, an unmistakable Irish lilt in her voice. "I'm wantin' ta speak with Lieutenant Malcolm Reed, servin' on the NX-01. Armory officer, in charge-a security an' such. Son of Stuart and Mary Reed, brother of Madeline. Birthday's September second. You the right Reed, lad?"

'_This is far too elaborate to be one of Trip's practical jokes, isn't it?'_ Malcolm wondered before answering cautiously. "Yes…but I'm afraid you have me at a bit of a disadvantage."

"Oh, do I now? Hmm…I suppose yer right on that count, lad. Betcha were expectin' the Admiral when you saw the message ID on yer screen, weren'tcha?" Her smile evaporated. "Well, yer stuck with me, God have mercy on yer soul. My name's Colleen McIntyre, but _you _may call me _Ma'am_. And I've contacted you because I want to know what the bloody blue hell you've done to my grandson."

Malcolm's jaw dropped. He found his voice after several very long seconds, and responded angrily. "I have _no_ idea what you're _talking_ about, but I intend to find out how you managed to _misappropriate _a comm channel to reach me and get me out of bed in the middle of the night so we could _chat_ about your _grandson_, whomever _he_ may be. _Then _I shall be all too happy to notify Admiral Berrington about this…this _stunt_ of yours, and I'm _quite _certain he'll—"

"Be my guest," she encouraged, the smile far more predatory as it returned. "Tell 'im whatever ya like. A'course, by the time _you _reach him, he'll already know. I don't keep too many secrets from my husband, after all." Lt. Reed stared blankly at the screen wishing, for the first time since they'd left Earth, that somebody would attack the ship. _'Where are those damned Klingons when you need them?'_

After gleefully watching the startled young man's expression—he looked for all the world like a deer caught in the headlights of an oncoming lorry—his caller broke the silence. "Now then, Lieutenant Reed…shall we get down ta business?" Malcolm nodded silently, his mind racing to catch up. At last the gears meshed. Saunders? Trip had said that Saunders had an Irish grandmother. This could _not _be happening…had an irate crewman actually decided to have his _grandmother_ fight his battles for him? What kind of man—

"Yer not lis'nin', are ya?" the woman snapped loudly, abruptly regaining Malcolm's full attention.

"I'm sorry ma'am," he apologized. "But it _is_ the middle of the night here, and my brain is still a little foggy. My apologies. You were saying?"

She glowered at him, her darkening eyes almost seeming capable of burning a hole through the screen. "Well dear me, I'm _so _sorry to have _inconvenienced_ you," she spat back sarcastically, her accent thickening considerably. "If it's _such _a damned bloody _bother _for ya, I can just cut the connection so's y' kin get back ta bed 'n' getcher _beauty _sleep. Maybe yer _captain _would be better able ta pay attention. Jonathan Archer, right? Henry Archer's boy? Has a wee dog of some variety? Beagle, I believe. I've always liked beagles. Clever little beasties. Smarter than most _people _I've encountered," she added, her meaning painfully clear. "Maybe it'd be better if I took this up with _him_—yer captain, I mean, not the dog. A'course, that'll mean wakin' him _and_ his dog from a sound sleep no doubt. Would _that_ be more _convenient _for ya?"

'_Please, God, send Klingons.'_

"No, no, no," Malcolm stammered, panicking, "That won't be necessary, ma'am. I assure you, you have my undivided attention."

Colleen McIntyre grinned triumphantly. "Thought I might. Now then, I was sayin' that my grandson David—you know him as Crewman Saunders—recently sent me a rather disturbin' message regardin' an incident with you. To be fair, I'm not sure he even knows he sent it, 'cuz he's not the sort ta go whinin' ta his grandma'am, an' he looked to have been in the Guinness just a wee bit. I suspect he intended ta delete it and hit the wrong button. But regardless of his intentions the fact remains that he sent it, and I played it. And yes, I _am_ familiar enough with command structure ta know that ya can't have outsiders muddlin' around with ya every time ya discipline one-a yer men. But I know my grandson a damned sight better than you, and I know that you've accused and punished him fer somethin' he _never _woulda done."

"Respectfully, ma'am, you weren't—"

"Shut up, ya feckin' eedgit" she snapped. "Shit an' molasses, boy, if ya wanna show me _'respectfully' _then ya kin bloody well hear me out! I'm guessin' ya weren't willin' ta listen ta my boy but by God yer bloody damned well gonna listen ta _me_, understand?"

Malcolm nodded mutely. _'Please God, send many many Klingons. Maybe some Suliban, too. And a few Andorians for a splash of color. And please hurry. Amen.'_

"All right, then," Colleen continued. "Now, ta be honest, David mentions ya in every one of his letters."

Malcolm groaned mentally. _'Note to self: Crewman Saunders' death must be made to look accidental.'_

David's grandmother pressed on. "But this last one came as a bit of a shock. In all his other letters he describes a man that he admires and respects. Says yer strict and no-nonsense when it comes ta the job, gotta quick mind fer problem-solvin', and yer above all a fair and honorable man. Says he never hasta worry 'bout feelin' homesick, either, 'cuz ya remind him so much of his Grandsir. An' never _once _has he been the least bit worried 'bout any a' the scrapes you've been in, 'cuz he knows yer on the job an' y'll keep 'em all safe. Even those Andorian fellas you knocked heads with didn't worry him none—he said if those fellas had known who they were up against and had any sense a'tall they'd've run home ta their mothers rather than get _you_ on their arses.

"So imagine my surprise, Lieutenant Reed, when I get his latest video letter an' he's lookin' like death warmed over. Kin tell jes' by looking' at 'im that he's not eatin' proper, not sleepin'…tells me he thinks he's made a mistake, that he should come home, that he's not cut out fer it. That maybe his father was right, that he's too weak ta measure up. That maybe it's not too late fer him ta come back here an' try ta follow the path his father's tried ta cram down his throat his entire bloody life." For the first time her voice broke but she quickly regained control.

"Eventually he gets ta the part that involves _you_. Says he scorched himself doin' some sorta maintenance an' apparently his language got a bit…shall we say, interesting. From what he said, he an' his crewmates didn't hear you come inta yer armoury til after he'd used a phrase that is seemingly one you yerself use—not infrequently, as I understand it—an' one of his mates commented how he sounded jest like you. This soundin' a'tall familiar to you, young man?"

"Yes, ma'am," Malcolm replied quietly, afraid to say more. He'd been totally unaware of any injury at the time.

Colleen nodded and continued. "Thought it might. Ya _will_ let me know if any'a this is off the mark, won'tcha?" she asked without allowing time for a response. "He says you were _quite _unamused. Felt you were bein' mocked by those under yer command. Says he could see in yer eyes that he'd done somethin' unpardonable. An' when he tried ta explain, ya wouldn't hear a word of it.

"He says it was really quite understandable on yer part, thinkin' you'd been disrespected 'n' all, but he thought after you'd hadda chance ta cool down you'd be willin' ta hear him out. Says he wasn't surprised that you'd assign him ta work double duties fer a few days—gotta maintain discipline, after all. But a couple of days have turned inta more than two _weeks_, with no end in sight. Says he's even been stayin' ta work beyond his assigned shifts, plus goin' in early, wantin' ta get back in yer good graces—though _why _he'd wanna be in the good graces of a sodding egomaniacal son of a sea cook such as yerself is beyond my comprehension. But there's no sign from you that he'll ever make it right by ya, an' he knows he can't keep up the pace much longer. As far as he can tell, he's not measurin' up and never will.

"So, Lieutenant, it looks like congratulations are in order. _You_ have succeeded where the boy's bloody no-account bollocks-for-brains rat bastard bully of a father _failed_. You've convinced him that he's never gonna measure up. That he's _worthless_." Her voice cracked again. "Well done. You've broken him. Feckin' hurrah for you." She tried to blink back tears but failed, and they began coursing down her cheeks. Her voice quivered uncontrollably as she continued.

"You had a man who would've marched barefoot and naked through the flaming gates of Hell and crawled on his belly over broken glass once he got to the other side, all on your say-so. Hell, he'd've carried ya on his back the whole way through, and done it with a smile on his face and a song in his heart. And ya've turned him inta an empty shell of a man who's convinced he can't draw his next breath ta your satisfaction. Guess I should've expected as much from _Stuart's _boy. He'll be right proud of ya when ya brag ta him 'bout _this _one, won't he?"

Her tears flowed freely and she angrily scrubbed them away. "I swore I would not give you the satisfaction of tears but damn you ta hell, you _betrayed_ me, an' even worse you've betrayed _him_! When I found out David would be servin' on that ship I made a point of checkin' inta the crew—I wanted ta know what my boy was gettin' inta, who was gonna be watchin' his back. Made me nervous as hell when I came upon the name _Reed_, let me tell you, but when I read your record I actually relaxed. An' when he told me aboutcha in his letters it put my heart at ease—I truly thought it was _good _that he'd be servin' under ya. God forgive me, I _trusted _you! I knew from the start it was gonna be dangerous out there fer him—fer all'a ya—but I convinced myself that you'd keep 'im safe, that you'd pr'tect 'im from whatever alien beasties might trouble ya out there. I never imagined I'd hafta be worryin' about who'd be there ta pr'tect him from _you_!

"David told me you were a _fair _and _honorable _man. Said ya remind him of his grandfather. I'll grant ya, Edward could be quite stern with his men, an' rightly so, but he'da just a-soon thrown himself overboard before he'da made any of 'em lick his boots fer weeks on end, an' he _never _woulda condemned a man without hearin' him out. 'Cuz Edward knew that he had a duty ta take care of the men under his command, and he knew that a broken man is a damned sight harder ta mend than broken equipment.

"Not that I suppose it mattered to ya then, nor that it matters now, but ya've broken him, an' fer _what_? All fer yer bruised _ego_. And now that ya've _broken _him, I'd be interested ta know how in _bloody blue hell_ yer planning' ta _fix _'im?" All Malcolm could do was stare mutely at the enraged, distraught woman, unable to give her an answer.

"Hmph," Colleen finally snorted. "I thought as much. Well, you'd best listen up, Lieutenant Malcolm Reed. David E. Saunders may be just another disposable crewman in _your_ eyes, but he's my only survivin' grandson, and if anything happens ta him out there I'll be holdin' _you _to account fer it. An' no matter how big the galaxy may be, it won't be big enough for ya to find a suitable hidin' place."

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Still cowed by Colleen McIntyre's tirade, a sleep-deprived, very subdued Lt. Reed showed up in the Armoury half-an-hour earlier than he normally would. A quick check showed no sign of Crewman Saunders—who wasn't due for another half-hour—so Malcolm set about busying himself with several small tasks while he waited for David to arrive. Forty-five minutes later he was still waiting.

"Anybody seen Crewman Saunders?" he asked, directing the question to everyone within earshot. The puzzled, nervous glances back and forth were not lost on him—it was as if they were silently drawing lots to see who got the privilege of poking a sleeping bear with a sharp stick.

Finally a young woman stepped tentatively forward, her dark, pretty face marred by tension. Crewman Miranda Atkinson stood at attention in front of her CO, having to look up to meet his gaze. "He left already, sir. Got here about twenty minutes before you did. Said he had to get started on the aft phase cannon maintenance you'd scheduled."

'_Bugger_.'

As Malcolm headed for the door Atkinson nervously called to him. "Lieutenant…?"

Reed turned slowly, gazing tiredly into her dark brown eyes. "What is it?" he asked softly. Miranda, evidently expecting a more volatile response, met his gaze with a stunned stare. "You wanted to say something?" Reed gently reminded her.

She found her voice with difficulty and stammered her response. "Y-yes sir…it's about, well…David. Crewman Saunders," she quickly corrected herself. "He was…I mean…it might look worse than it actually is, sir, but," she paused as if trying to decide how to phrase it. "He's kinda messed up, but I couldn't convince him to go to Sickbay. Something's wrong with him."

Malcolm stiffened. "What do you mean, Crewman?" After a moment she shook her head.

"It's probably nothing, sir. I'm sorry. Shouldn't have troubled you. I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Why not let me be the judge of that?" Malcolm replied, his tone low. "Please explain to me exactly what you think is wrong with him." He expected her to say that Saunders seemed tired, or sullen, or distracted, so what she finally blurted out took him entirely by surprise.

"Well, sir…his left arm's bunged up, and he was limping a little. And his left hand looks like it's broken."

'_What the bloody hell…?'_

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He found Saunders diligently working on the aft cannon, though how he was able to do it in his present state was beyond Reed's ability to fathom. Even at a distance it was obvious from the bruising and swelling that at least two fingers of his left hand were broken. And he was trying to keep the upper part of his left arm tight to his body. As he awkwardly shifted the scanner in the palm of his left hand he flinched, sucking in his breath sharply. Malcolm could see David's profile, and the younger man's too-pale face spoke volumes. The crewman's brow was deeply furrowed, his lips pinched so tightly together that almost all pigment was forced from them making them nothing more than pale thin lines.

After several long, silent minutes of watching Saunders work Reed drew closer and spoke, his voice little more than a whisper. "Crewman?" The effect was immediate and painful for Malcolm to watch, Saunders' body stiffening as he snapped to attention. Despite the pain the sudden movement must have caused him David made no sound except to answer his CO.

"Yes sir." Malcolm stepped up to Saunders, looking up into the younger man's tense face. Setting things right with the man was going to have to take a back seat to getting him some medical attention. He looked up into the crewman's dull eyes momentarily contemplating whether to simply _order _him to Sickbay, but quickly discarded that idea.

"Put those tools down and come with me, please," Reed demanded gently. Saunders wordlessly complied, putting the tools into the nearby case then falling into step behind the lieutenant. Atkinson had been right: he was definitely favoring his right leg.

The two men proceeded silently until they reached the turbolift. As they rode Malcolm tried to decide how best to break the silence. He definitely couldn't mention the call from "Grandma'am", so he went with the obvious question.

"Care to tell me what happened?"

Staring straight ahead at the door, David blinked several times before responding. "It's rather embarrassing, sir," he finally replied, his voice formal but subdued. "Given a choice, I'd rather not discuss it. Besides, it's minor. Looks worse than it is, sir."

"I hope you'll forgive me if I find that a little hard to believe," Reed said. There was no audible reply but Saunders' posture changed as he stiffened even more (which Malcolm hadn't thought physically possible).

Needing to break the uncomfortable mood, Malcolm decided to forge ahead. "Look, Saunders...David," he started, trying to maintain a tone of authority while sounding conciliatory. "I need to speak with you about what happened a few weeks back. I've had a word with Commander Tucker, and—" he was interrupted by the turbolift stopping and the door opening. Sighing, Malcolm motioned David out then followed. The rest of their trip to Sickbay passed uneventfully, neither man breaking the tense silence between them.

When they arrived they were greeted by an overly-chipper Phlox, who immediately directed Saunders to sit on the exam table.

As he began scanning the left arm Phlox grew serious. "I'd be interested to know how this happened, Crewman," the doctor asked. "There's quite a bit of damage here. Hmm... broken wrist...three broken fingers..." he lingered over the shoulder before continuing. "How did you get the shoulder back in the socket?"

"Just did," Saunders replied in a casual voice. "I've...had some practice with it. Not the first time it's been dislocated."

Phlox shot a perplexed glance at Malcolm then looked back at his patient. "I see. You also have a good deal of damage to the dermal layers. That would be...?"

"Rope burns, sir," David said matter-of-factly. "Can I go now? I've got a lot of work to do, and I can't get it done from here."

Phlox shook his head. "I'm afraid you're not going anywhere, young man. Not until these injuries have been explained to me and properly treated. You're in no condition—"

"I'm fine, sir. And I really have a lot—"

"You are _far _from fine, Mr. Saunders. Over here, please," Phlox directed, motioning the man to the imaging chamber. David looked at the small door of the chamber as if he were facing a firing squad.

"Sir, really, I'm _fine_," he insisted again. Phlox shook his head.

"You sound like Lieutenant Reed. Now—"

"Don't say that," Saunders hissed in a whispered, menacing voice. "Don't. _Ever._ Say that." He stared into the doctor's eyes, and Phlox leaned ever so slightly away from the crewman.

"As you wish. However," the doctor urged, patting the bed of the chamber, "I still need you to lie down here." After a moment's hesitation Saunders limped to the gurney and complied, squeezing his eyes tightly shut as the bed slid into the chamber and the door closed.

"You need to stay still, please," Phlox urged loudly as he watched the image squirming on the screen. "That's better, crewman," he comforted as the man settled down.

Malcolm took in the worried look on the doctor's face. "How bad is it?" he asked.

Phlox shook his head. "I'm going to want to keep him for a while, Lieutenant. In addition to the injuries I've already mentioned, he's got a hairline fracture of the right tibia and one—no, two cracked ribs. I don't suppose _you _would care to tell me what happened, hmm?"

Reed shook his head. "He wouldn't tell me and I didn't want to press the issue. Just wanted to get him down here. Wish I'd know about the leg, though. I knew it was bothering him but I never imagined it was _broken_."

Phlox nodded. "Well, I'm sure he didn't realize it, either. And as I said, it's a hairline fracture rather than a complete break, so we'll just keep him off of it until we get it properly mended. You did the right thing getting him here quickly, Lieutenant. In addition to his physical injuries," the doctor said, studying the crewman's reading, "Crewman Saunders' heart rate and respiration are accelerated, his blood pressure is dangerously high, he's suffering from dehydration, borderline malnutrition, and exhaustion—frankly, I'm not certain how he's still functioning." Studying the readings a moment longer Phlox ended the scan and the bed slid out of the chamber.

"All finished, Mr. Saunders," he assured the man, patting him on his uninjured shoulder. Malcolm stepped back, shocked at the man's appearance. David's face was even paler than it had been when Malcolm had first seen him at the phase cannon, he was sweating profusely, and his breathing was rapid and shallow. His eyes were squeezed shut and he seemed to be murmuring something under his breath. Despite the broken fingers both hands were clenched into tight fists.

Another pat from Phlox seemed to bring the man out of it. David's eyes flickered open, meeting the doctor's kind, concerned gaze.

As his breathing slowed to something approaching normal Saunders cautiously sat up. "Can't you just let me out of here so I can get back to work?" he pleaded. "It hardly hurts at all and if I don't get that maintenance finished—"

"As I said before," Phlox interrupted too-cheerily, "you're not going anywhere for a while. This way, please, and don't put any weight on that leg," he urged, helping the reluctant man to a biobed.

"But the lieutenant needs—"

"I don't care _what_ the _lieutenant _needs," the doctor interrupted again. "I'm far more interested in _your _needs. Now, lie down," he demanded good-naturedly. Saunders complied wordlessly, glancing forlornly at Lt. Reed. Seemingly from thin air Phlox produced a hypospray. When he had the device a few centimeters from David's neck he paused, eyes sparkling with understanding. "You were _climbing_, weren't you?" he asked, grinning gleefully as he lowered the hypospray.

Saunders returned the doctor's grin with a puzzled half-smile. "How do you know about that?"

"Ensign Mayweather once mentioned to me that you were fond of climbing. I must say, he led me to believe you were somewhat more...accomplished at it than _this_," he commented, chuckling slightly.

Saunders looked sheepishly at the doctor then at the floor. "Yeah, well...I usually am. Haven't had a chance to figure it out yet," he said, his eyes meeting the doctor's again. "By the time I got the shoulder back in place I had just enough time to stow my gear before I had to get to the Armoury, so I dunno yet if it was a failure of the equipment or the person using it." He paused briefly as if deciding whether to go into further detail, then plowed ahead.

"The rope slipped and I got my left arm wrapped up in it, which is where the rope burns came from. Hand got snagged, hence the broken fingers and wrist. Shoulder's from the abrupt stop, and my leg got banged up a little 'cuz I was further from the floor than I realized when I let go. One of my more successful descents, all in all," he added jokingly. "Any landing you can walk away from, after all."

"Or limp away from, in this instance, hmm?" Phlox joked back, grinning.

David returned the smile then grew somber. "Doctor...I _have_ to get back to those cannons. I'm tellin' ya the truth, it _really_ doesn't hurt all that much. Can't I just go finish with the cannons then come back here as soon as I'm done? _Please_," he implored.

Phlox pretended to consider the request before administering the hypospray. "I'm sure the phase cannons will still be there when you wake up," he assured his patient, watching the young man's eyes drift closed.


	3. Chapter 3

NOTE: Thanks to EntAllat for info on tea as well as beverage suggestions for Malcolm! (Had already settled on Guinness, but the Glenlivet may come in handy—if not for him, maybe for me!)

CHAPTER THREE

The first task Malcolm set for himself was to review the previous night's security tapes from the gym. He finally found the proper time index and watched in rapt fascination as Saunders skillfully ascended and descended innumerable times until finally the man stopped at the top and hung there. Though not quite _afraid_ of heights Malcolm did feel a slight discomfort about them and admired the ease with which the large crewman handled himself on the rope.

After a minute or so of silence a sigh could be heard, followed by Saunders' quiet voice proclaiming, "Not bloody likely to happen _now_," followed by a yawned "Gotta stop talkin' like that." He then simply hung there for several minutes, swinging ever so gently on the rope. At last David spoke again, his bitter voice sounding more like his grandmother's with every word.

"Looks like you were right after all, Father. Once a screw-up, always a screw-up. You'd laugh yer arse off if you could see me now, wouldn'tcha? You said I wasn't cut out for it, and maybe you were right. Maybe I'm not. But I'll be damned if either you _or _Lieutenant Reed will ever hear me admit it. I won't give _either _of you the bloody satisfaction. I'll _die _out here first."

Pausing the playback Malcolm closed his eyes, pained by what he had heard. Tiredly pinching the bridge of his nose between his thumb and forefinger he at last opened his eyes and resumed playing the recording. He studied every movement of the man but nothing hinted at the fall that was to come. A bitter laugh startled the lieutenant but not nearly as much as David's words.

"Well, Lieutenant, yer gonna hafta find yer entertainment someplace else, I guess," the man declared, his voice echoing through the empty room. After a moment the crewman's breathing became erratic, a tremor passing through him before his breathing leveled out and he righted himself, beginning his descent with a faint sigh. Malcolm rewound the recording to the point where Saunders had begun having difficulty breathing in an effort to figure out what was wrong. Zooming in to get a better look at the man's face gave Reed his answer. The lieutenant swallowed hard as he watched David fight to contain tears that seemed determined to come, gaping at the screen as the barely audible words "Don't bend, don't break, never cry" slid off David's tongue for what seemed an eternity. At last Saunders reined in his emotions and started down.

There had been an audible snapping sound within the first meter of his descent, and a loud pop and a scream as Saunders' fall was arrested by his left arm tangling in the rope. Reed stomach flipped as he realized that the second 'pop' had been the sound of the man's shoulder being wrenched out of its socket. A second, stifled shriek escaped from the crewman as he dangled by his damaged arm, midway between floor and ceiling. He fought desperately to pull himself up with his right arm, striving to take pressure off his tortured left limb. He gained an inch or two then maneuvered his legs so that the rope looped obligingly around his feet. Using the loop as a step he was able to push himself upward, finally gaining enough slack to free his tangled arm; it dangled uselessly as he gingerly worked his way down the rope. Just over two meters from the floor David suddenly dropped, crashing to the deck and crumpling in a heap.

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Malcolm worked furiously on the cannons, trying with little success to use the task to temporarily push aside the morning's events. He'd been unable to watch any more of the footage of Saunders' accident and was seriously regretting watching _any _of it. About all he'd learned as far as the cause was that it had _sounded_ like equipment failure: since he didn't know where Saunders had stowed his gear (and was disinclined to ask any of the crewman's friends) he had no way to verify that as yet. What he'd learned about Saunders—and himself—had left a knot in the pit of his stomach.

When he'd completed the maintenance he headed to the Mess Hall for lunch. Thankfully it was far enough past mealtime for the place to be empty: word had already circulated throughout much of ship that he'd "marched Saunders through the ship on a broken leg" so he was grateful for the solitude of a vacant dining room.

Absently stirring his beef stew he mulled over the day's events then thought back over the past weeks. What little appetite he possessed fled as he realized exactly how familiar the circumstances were. How many times in his childhood had he committed some infraction, either real or supposed, against his father's rules? Countless…and each offense had been dealt with in the same agonizing manner: first came the lecture, then the cold silent stares and plenty of menial tasks to drive home the lesson that disobedience and frivolity were contrary to the Proper Conduct of Reed Men.

Even more charming had been the times when the elder Reed had employed the tactic of refusing to even acknowledge his son's existence. No matter what he'd done to redeem himself his father held firm, continuing to ignore the boy until a suitable length of time had passed. The longest had been just over two months. And the offense had been…what? Malcolm racked his brain to remember. Ah, yes…a schoolyard scuffle had brought a call from his teacher. Stuart's reaction to the call had been predictable—"What's the boy done this time?" he'd asked as soon as the teacher stated that the call was about Malcolm—and his reaction after the call had been even more predictable.

Malcolm remembered standing at attention in his father's study knowing that he wouldn't be allowed to explain the reason for the altercation at school. Never mind that the other boy was picking on one of the few friends Malcolm had. Never mind that the bully had knocked the already-bruised lad to the ground. It didn't matter that the thug had drawn back his leg to kick the helpless boy, who had curled himself into a ball in an attempt to shield himself from the blows heading his way. Unwilling to stand by and see his friend injured further Malcolm had intervened, sending the larger boy scurrying away with a bloody nose and several loose teeth. But all of that was irrelevant: the only thing that mattered was that Stuart Reed had been forced to endure the humiliation of a call from his miscreant son's teacher.

Malcolm didn't recall the details of the dressing-down: by that time in his life there had been innumerable lectures, all so similar that they had over time simply blurred together. He _did _have a vivid memory of standing there wishing his father would just give him a sound beating and be done with it. When he'd voiced that opinion to his friend a few days later the boy, with a fresh shiner and his arm in a cast, had just stared at him with sad, hollow eyes. _"No, Mal, trust me…you don't."_

And in Saunders case, Reed chastised himself, he hadn't even given the man the benefit of a lecture. If he had, there might have been an opportunity for the man to at least attempt to set the record straight. No, instead he'd opted for a combination of ignoring the man and assigning countless tasks to him, Saunders playing Hercules to his King Eurystheus.

The uncomfortable expanding knot in his stomach made it impossible to finish his meal. Abandoning the stew Malcolm fled the Mess Hall. He quickly made his way to Sickbay, Colleen McIntyre's voice burning in his ears. _"Guess I should have expected as much from __Stuart's__ boy. He'll be right proud of ya when ya brag ta him 'bout __this__ one, won't he?"_ The knowledge that he had, however unintentionally, behaved as his father seared his soul and Malcolm was determined to bring that behavior to a screeching halt.

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The privacy curtain was drawn around Saunders' bed, causing Malcolm to approach hesitantly. He froze at the sound of voices coming from behind the curtain, not wanting to blunder in and interrupt. He thought at first that Phlox was back there tending his patient (with God only knew what kinds of slugs, leeches, or other members of Sickbay's menagerie—he certainly didn't need to see _that_!); it took only a moment for him to realize, however, that the voice softly bantering with Saunders was female.

He was now faced with a bit of a dilemma: proceeding through the curtain meant interrupting a private conversation, but holding his present position meant eavesdropping on said conversation. There was the risk that his departure would be heard but he was loathe to listen in and most assuredly didn't wish to intrude. Malcolm opted for a stealthy retreat in hopes that, since his entrance had apparently gone unnoticed, so too would his exit. He'd almost made it to the door when David's voice, loud and drunken-sounding, with an unmistakable Irish lilt, froze him in place.

"Hey Randy…wanna know the difference b'tween my father and Lieutenant Reed? Father's taller." There was a small, humorless chuckle from Saunders, then a sigh. "Nah…never mind. Guess that was a low blow. That's not the _only_ difference. The lieutenant, t' th' best of my knowledge, has never kicked any puppies. An' I know fer-a _fact _that he's never broken a chair across m' back. Well, not yet, anyway. Guess I could ask Porthos if _he _knows about any puppy-kicking incidents. An' maybe hide the chairs in the Armory, just in case."

"Dave, there aren't any chairs in the Armory," Atkinson pointed out.

"Hmm…I wonder why…" he chuckled.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room, finally broken by the woman's nervous voice. "Dave, maybe you should get some sleep. I can come back later. I'm due in the Armory pretty soon anyhow."

"Please don't go, Meeranda," he slurred drunkenly. "I promise...no more talk of Father."

"I don't mind if you wanna talk about him—might be good for you to let it out. I'm just worried that if you get too agitated Phlox won't let me back in here."

"I'm not agitated," Saunders objected almost cheerfully. "Got too much of the Doc's latest concoction flowin' through me ta be agitated."

"Yeah, well…you shoulda seen your vitals spike just _mentioning _your father." She paused before asking softly, "He didn't _really_—?"

"Help me turn over." There were sounds of movement and a stifled groan, then Saunders said simply, "Take a look." Miranda gasped. "Wanna know the funny part, Randy?" David asked after a moment. "In the gym, before the feckin' rope let loose, I was hangin' there, clearing' my mind, thinkin' about everything, an' I'd all but decided ta pack it in. Jus' give him my resignation an' go home. But when I thought about it…goin' home meant havin' Father know he was right, showin' him what a sodding failure I am. Couldn't let _that_ happen. Given a choice, I much prefer DBR—Death By Reed," he elaborated. "Less painful. Besides," he continued, "I figured that if I survived Father I sure as bloody hell shoulda been able to survive whatever the lieutenant could dish out. Think I handled it wrong, though. Spent all this time tryin' ta redeem myself, but the more I think about it the more I suspect I shoulda jus' kept pissin' him off. If I'da got 'im mad enough he coulda jus' pitched my arse out the nearest airlock. Then _he'd _be happy, _I'd _be happy, and _Father'd _be feckin' _ecstatic_, 'cuz he'd be rid of the last of his failures. As it is now…" He sighed again then blurted out, "Lieutenant's gonna kick me over to Engineering, y'know."

"WHAT? He can't…where'dja get _that_ idea from?"

"He told me so himself. Or at least, he started to. In the turbolift, when he brought me here this morning. Even called me 'David'…hell, I didn't even know that he _knew _my first name. Anyhow, I guess he figured actin' _friendly_ would ease the blow. Said he needed ta talk t' me 'bout what happened then said he'd been talkin' t' Commander Tucker 'bout me**. **'I've had a word with Commandah Tuckah,'" he flawlessly mimicked the lieutenant. "His exact words. That's as far as he got 'cuz the lift stopped, an' I guess he didn't wanna discuss it in the middle of the corridor. Shit an' molasses, Randy, I _suck_ at Engineering. 'Bout all I'll be good for down there is fetchin' coffee fer Rostov. I get anywhere near the engines, chances are I'll blow up the whole bloody ship b'fore the week is out." Another long sigh escaped from David before he spoke again. "Airlock's lookin' pretty damned good right about now, Randy. I'd be savin' the ship from certain destruction. Could _even _be a posthumous commendation in it fer me."

"Not funny, Dave."

"Nah…I guess not."

"It's not _fair_, y'know," Miranda said angrily after a long pause.

"Show me exactly where it's written that life's supposed t' be _fair_, Crewman Atkinson," David slurred. "It's when things start ta seem _fair _that _I _start worryin', 'cuz that's just about the time y' can start lookin' fer the shit t' hit the fan."

"Y'know…for two cents I'd tell Lieutenant Reed _exactly_ what I think of him."

"Be sure t' lemme know when yer plannin' ta do that so's I can be somewhere safe…like inside the warp reactor." Both crewmen laughed softly before Atkinson replied gently.

"Okay…_probably _not one of my better ideas."

"No kidding," Saunders agreed. "Hey, didn't you say you're due in the Armory?"

"Uh-huh. But the world won't come to an end if I'm ten seconds late, will it now?"

"Betcha Mr. Reed would disagree with ya on that one. B'sides, if yer too late the lieutenant'll be sendin' out a search party for ya, or maybe come lookin' himself. Trust me, Randy, you bloody well do _not_ want ta piss him off." David gave a long yawn before continuing. "Y'know, maybe Engineering won't be too bad…"

"Are you feeling okay?" Atkinson joked. "Maybe Phlox should cut back on your pain medication."

"I'm fine, an' the pain meds are spot on…it's just occurred to me, though...pretty high ceilings in Engineering, right? Might make for a good climb."

"You are incorrigible, you know that?" Atkinson chastised good-naturedly. "Besides, we're not gonna let the lieutenant ship you off to Engineering. Who'll sing his torpedoes to sleep at night if we let _that_ happen?"

"I do no such thing!" Saunders objected.

"You're forgetting that I've _heard_ you. Can't decide which I enjoy more, though—when you sing that serious opera crap or when you're bein' funny. What was that one you were belting out last month, when we were calibrating the sensors?" She whistled a few bars of a tune unfamiliar to Malcolm but which Saunders immediately began singing along with, his voice slurred by the drugs but still strong and more or less on key.

"Bang bang, you shot me down. Bang bang, I hit the ground. Bang bang, that awful sound. Bang bang, my baby shot me down." The crewmen chuckled.

"Yes, that's the one!" Miranda squeaked. Both giggled aloud for several moments. As their quiet laughter died down Reed heard another yawn from Saunders.

"Y'know what this means, don'cha?" the young man asked groggily. "I'm gonna hafta learn some Engineering songs."

"Nah…we'll just smuggle you into the Armory when the lieutenant's not there an' you can have your little concerts then."

"Won't work, Randy," Saunders told her sleepily. "Lieutenant's _always _there. Lieutenant all but feckin' _lives _there. Just hafta make Engineering work, I guess," he yawned. "At least Commander Tucker doesn't hate the very _sight _of me, like the lieutenant does. Not _yet_, anyways. That'll change pretty quick once I bugger up his engines, though," David chuckled, yawning again, and a few minutes later Malcolm heard a chair slide against the floor.

Moving quickly, Reed activated the door to give the illusion of having just entered; he feigned surprise when Crewman Atkinson came out from behind the curtain. "Ah, hello Crewman," he greeted her cheerfully. "How's the patient?" He pretended to not notice Miranda's formal, icy tone or the anger in her dark eyes.

"He's just fallen back to sleep, sir," she replied, her glacial voice soft and dangerous. "Dr. Phlox said he'll be laid up for a few days and should avoid _any _undue stress of agitation."

"Very good," he responded, maintaining a balance between cheerful and aloof. When she made no move toward the door, Malcolm officially invited Atkinson to leave with a casually tossed out "Dismissed, Crewman." The expression that flickered across her face lasted only an instant yet displayed enough emotion for Reed to be grateful that she wasn't carrying a sidearm.

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Malcolm thought at first that Saunders realized who his new visitor was and was pretending to be asleep, but it only took a moment for the lieutenant to realize that this was not the case. Standing next to the bed he silently perused David's vital signs before turning his attention to the sleeping man's face.

Though his color had improved his skin was still pale enough to accentuate the dark circles under his sunken eyes. Despite his state of slumbering relaxation his face was gaunt and haggard, his brow furrowing as he slept. The blanket shifted as David moved his legs, exposing his bare shoulders and chest. Malcolm studied the man's damaged arm, which Phlox had expertly dressed then immobilized across David's chest. Only the index finger and thumb of his left hand were exposed: bruising and swelling from the injured area had leaked out from under the dressing, all but enveloping the exposed digits. Malcolm shuddered inwardly at the memory of Saunders at the phase cannon, trying to juggle a scanner in that wrecked hand, forcing his wounded body to continue working. Unintelligible murmurs escaped David's lips as he shifted again, bringing Malcolm's attention back to the present.

The crewman's feet had snared the blanket, each movement of his legs pulling the covering away from him. Almost his entire torso now lay exposed and shivering so Malcolm gingerly took hold of the bedclothes, easing them gently over the fitfully-sleeping man. Satisfied that he hadn't roused the patient he turned away, reaching for the nearby chair, then gave a start as a hand weakly grasped his wrist.

David's eyes were half-open and glassy as he stared blankly at Malcolm a long while.

At last Malcolm found his voice. "Hello, David."

Saunders smiled, blinking slowly. "Hello, Grandsir."

_'Grandsir? Bloody fabulous…kid thinks I'm his grandfather.'_

The man's grip tightened, his smile suddenly gone. "I'm so sorry, Grandsir," David slurred groggily. "I know you must be terribly disappointed in me. Please, _please _forgive me," he pleaded. "I just…when Molly tried t' stop him and he grabbed her…had to stop him…couldn't let him—"

"Shh," Malcolm comforted. "Don't worry about it. You did fine," he added, hoping he was saying the right thing.

"I hit him, Grandsir. I hauled off and pasted him. Please forgive me."

Malcolm stared, considering his next words carefully. The conversation he'd overheard earlier left little doubt in his mind whom David had hit. "Don't worry about that right now. Everything's going to be fine. Just try to get some rest."

"Forgive me, please forgive me," he begged, his grip on Malcolm's wrist growing painfully strong.

"David, listen to me," Malcolm urged, placing his free hand on the man's uninjured shoulder. "You need to _calm down._" David slowly nodded, frightened blue eyes searching Malcolm's face for absolution. "As far as I'm concerned," Malcolm continued, groping for words, "if he made a grab for Molly, then…you did the right thing. There's nothing to forgive, David—"

"But I _hit_ him, Grandsir. I hit him…Jaysus, I lit inta him, just kept hittin' him…"

"I forgive you," Reed blurted, desperate to give the man peace. "I forgive you. Just please try to rest awhile, all right?"

The fear and desperation drained from Saunders' face, his grip on Malcolm slacking. "Aye, sir," David moaned tiredly. "I _am_ kinda knackered, and I think maybe I've busted up my hand. There is one thing I'm wonderin', though…wouldja mind not tellin' Grandma'am? I think I should tell her myself."

"Fair enough. Now get some sleep," Malcolm urged gently, giving the man's shoulder a reassuring squeeze before letting go. The crewman's eyes slid closed, his hand gradually relinquishing its hold on Reed's wrist. Silently placing the chair next to the biobed, Malcolm settled in, listening to the younger man's breathing even out as Colleen McIntyre's accusations kept ringing in his ears.

_"Should've expected as much from __Stuart's__ boy…God forgive me, I __trusted__ you! …Didn't think I'd hafta be worryin' about who'd be there t' pr'tect him from you! …Y've broken him, an' fer what? All fer yer bruised ego…if anything happens ta him out there I'll be holdin' __you__ to account fer it."_

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He awoke despite his best efforts, grudgingly opening his eyes. Disoriented at first, he tried to figure out where he was. A twinge of pain flickered through his left shoulder and down the arm, jump-starting his memory. Sickbay. The lieutenant had escorted him to Sickbay…how long ago? David squeezed his eyes shut at the humiliating memory. The sound of a gentle snore made him open his eyes again and cast a look around. He stared slack-jawed at the sight that greeted him as he looked to his right.

Lt. Reed sat no more than a meter from the biobed, hands folded on his lap, mouth slightly agape, and head thrown back as if he were studying the ceiling. Closed eyes and intermittent soft snores assured the crewman that the man was indeed asleep, but David couldn't piece together why his CO was here.

_'Is he really so eager to toss my arse to Engineering that he came to wait for me to wake up so he could do it?'_ Saunders dismissed that notion solely because he suspected that Phlox wouldn't allow the lieutenant to do such a thing. _'Maybe I muddled up the phase cannon I was workin' on and he's come to ream me out for it?'_ That theory, too, fell by the wayside: first because, once again, Phlox wouldn't allow it in his Sickbay, and second because the lieutenant surely would have roused him rather than lazing around waiting for him to wake up. And he _certainly_ wouldn't take a nap in Sickbay. Not willingly, at any rate. David thought frantically, struggling to remember everything he'd recently done and trying to decide what action or actions would have brought the lieutenant here. _'Musta made a feckin' mess of __something__ or he wouldn't __be__ here. Think, man…what have you done __this__ time?'_

Staring at the lieutenant, several things occurred to Saunders. He realized that he'd never seen Lt. Reed so completely relaxed. Also, for the man to be so soundly asleep in the middle of Sickbay—at least, without the benefit of one of Phlox's elixirs—he must be thoroughly exhausted. And David would never have figured the lieutenant for a snorer. Though with his head at such an ungodly angle it shouldn't be surprising. _'He'll have a helluva sore neck in the morning,'_ he thought. Saunders considered calling out to wake the lieutenant—for all of about three milliseconds. After all, you don't go into a bear cave in the middle of winter and start whacking the bear on the snout. Especially if the bear in question has easy access to phase pistols and torpedoes. _And_ enjoys using them.

So Saunders laid perfectly still, staring nervously at his slumbering superior for several agonizing minutes, contemplating a plan of action. Weighing the risks and rewards he finally decided to make a break for it. Maybe he could hide in Phlox's office or even (David shuddered) the imaging chamber. Even _that_ would be preferable to being here when Reed woke up: he felt too brittle to endure those glacial eyes boring through him again. Bracing himself against the pain ('_Marvelous time for your magic potion to wear off, doc!'_) he silently eased the bedclothes away with his right hand, inching his way cautiously off the left side of the bed.

So far, so good. He was sitting on the edge of the bed looking over his shoulder at his still-sleeping visitor. Sitting stock-still he considered his next move. Wouldn't do much good to get out if he didn't have a destination. What were his options?

Returning to his quarters was too obvious. The Armory was out since Reed seemed to practically live there. Mess Hall? Too public. One of the maintenance shafts? He shuddered at the thought of the narrow passageways; that would have to be a last resort. Maybe the transporter's control processor room? That might work—damned near everyone on board was scared shitless of the transporter and hated going near the thing, including Lt. Reed. He finally discounted that, though: if the lieutenant were the one to find him, the proximity of the transporter would save the senior officer the trouble of hauling his sorry arse to an airlock. Besides, it was too far away—he'd be spotted and corralled in record time. Especially since he'd be flitting about the ship in just a pair of pajama bottoms.

He was fast running out of ideas. He was just about to admit defeat when the perfect solution came to him. It was nearby yet not an immediately obvious hiding place. He grinned. Not too small, off the beaten path, and not currently in use. _'It's feckin' __perfect__!'_ David mentally congratulated himself for the idea. Of course, the idea would be useless if he couldn't actually _get_ there. His left arm and hand were really starting to throb, and his right leg was reminding him exactly how hard he'd landed on it. If he didn't move soon he feared he wouldn't move at all.

Eyes locked on the lieutenant Saunders rose from the edge of the bed with agonizing slowness. His leg was protesting desperately but he pushed aside most of the pain. His breathing quickened but he made almost no sound as he leaned heavily against the bed and hobbled cautiously down the length of it. Once at the foot of the bed he identified with dread a serious flaw in his "feckin' perfect" plan: his damaged leg was going to have to hold his full weight, for there was nothing else for him to cling to for support and his future hiding place, though relatively close, was still a good distance away. He was sure the leg hadn't hurt this much before he'd been brought to Sickbay, but it was fairly screaming at him now. He was trapped.

He felt blind, unreasoning panic welling up within him. _'Not now, not now. Pull yourself together! Yer not trapped, just…delayed.'_ David fought to slow his breathing, certain that his heart was pounding loudly enough to wake the lieutenant. It took almost a full minute for him to regain control and push aside the panic attack. And still, remarkably, Lt. Reed hadn't heard anything. Saunders held his position another half minute, bracing himself against the anticipated pain. Finally, certain he could withstand the discomfort long enough to make good his escape, he stepped away from the bed.

And screamed as his leg buckled under him.

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Malcolm leapt from the chair and was crouched beside the collapsed crewman in an instant. His first thought was that the man had fallen from bed, but Saunders' position made it obvious that he'd gotten out of bed and tried to walk on his injured leg. David was now half-sprawled, half-kneeling on the floor, having somehow managed to save himself from landing on his injured arm. He remained unmoving, staring at the floor as he gasped futilely for breath.

Gently placing a hand on the crewman's right shoulder, Malcolm spoke. "Saunders…can you hear me?"

The crewman raised his head, pale blue pain-filled eyes meeting the lieutenant's but not quite seeming to see him. Mouth agape he finally caught his breath enough to speak. "Jaysus…what happened?"

"You got out of bed and tried to walk on a broken leg. Where did you think you were _going_?" Reed asked, worry obvious in his voice.

Despite the agony Saunders had enough presence of mind to withhold the truth. "Bathroom," he panted, swallowing hard as it quickly dawned on him how horribly true the statement had suddenly become. "Have to get…gonna be—" he wasn't quite able to turn his head away from the lieutenant before violently heaving the contents of his stomach onto the floor of Sickbay as well as a good portion of Malcolm's uniform. When he finished retching he forced himself to look at his CO but couldn't bear the sight and cast his eyes to the floor. "Please just kill me now," he pleaded softly.

"Don't worry yourself about it," Malcolm said sympathetically, stoically ignoring the mess on the floor and himself. "Lean on me, and keep off that leg," he insisted, looping David's right arm over his shoulder. He hoisted on the larger man, helping him off of the floor and back to the edge of the bed. The sound of the doors opening and the doctor's cheerful humming reached Malcolm's grateful ears and the lieutenant called out. "Phlox! Get over here! We need some help!"

The Denobulan appeared at once, shoving the curtain aside and surveying the scene before him. He helped Malcolm get Saunders stretched out on the bed and began scanning David's leg. "Well, what started out as a hairline fracture of the tibia is now a full-fledged break of the tibia _and_ fibula, Mr. Saunders," he scolded sternly as he administered a hypospray. "It will take a moment, but this should alleviate some of the pain. What happened?"

"He got out of bed. Said he needed the lavatory," Malcolm answered, a quick tip of his head toward the mess on floor emphasizing his point.

"And you let him get up?" the doctor accused, incredulous.

"I'd dozed off in the chair. Didn't know he'd gotten up until he yelled—by then he was already on the floor."

"What on Denobula were you thinking, getting out of bed unassisted?" Phlox asked his trembling patient, who was staring unblinking at the ceiling.

Breath still coming in rapid, shallow gasps, David's answer came in a strained, shaking voice. "Didn't know the leg wouldn't hold me. It was fine this morning."

"It _wasn't_ fine this morning," Phlox corrected, exasperated. "Each step you took aggravated the injury, but since you were in shock it most likely didn't feel as though it was seriously damaged." Saunders stifled a retch, swallowing hard as he clenched his jaws. Phlox motioned urgently to a basin on the nearby counter. "Lieutenant, bring that here, quickly." Malcolm seized the basin and brought it back, standing near the right side of David's head. The crewman squeezed his eyes tightly shut, obviously trying to fight his still-churning stomach. When he could hold off no longer he turned over, dispensing the remaining contents of his rebellious gut into the basin.

Almost as disturbing to Malcolm as the retching was the sight of tears forcing themselves out from beneath David's tightly-closed eyelids. He felt uncomfortable enough seeing women cry; men, he had always been taught, _do not_ cry, no matter the reason. Upon reflection, though, hiking around on a broken leg was probably as good a reason as any to weep openly.

Nausea finally subsiding Saunders rolled onto his back, eyes still squeezed shut as he struggled to catch his breath. At last the pain medication began to work and his breathing slowed, though his body was still wracked by tremors. He felt blankets being laid over him and a reassuring hand on his shoulder but couldn't bring himself to look. Even when he heard Phlox gently demanding that he open his eyes he couldn't do it, for he knew who else he'd see standing there. It would have been hard enough seeing those icy eyes glaring down at him before. Combine those eyes with the vomit-spattered man they belonged to…he just could not bear the thought of that sight. "Jaysus, please just let me die," he whispered.

"Sorry, Mr. Saunders," Malcolm said kindly, "but that's not an option. Just try to relax. You're going to be fine."

Surprised by the sympathetic tone of the lieutenant's voice, David slowly dared open his eyes to meet the officer's gaze. Contrary to expectations, Lt. Reed didn't look the least bit angry, but seemed genuinely concerned as well as oblivious to the state of his uniform. As David's eyes drifted downward, taking in the mess, he squeezed them shut again. "Sir, I'm…I'm so sorry." He couldn't bring himself to say more, fearing that he'd totally break down and begin bawling like a baby.

The hand, still on his right shoulder, patted in consolation as Malcolm gave the injured man a hint of a smile. "Nothing a shower and change of garments won't remedy. I told you before, don't worry yourself about it."

"It's not just that, sir. Bad enough I doused you like that, but then you wind up having to hold the basin while I cut loose again. As if I hadn't caused you enough trouble already. Perfect capper to a feckin' perfect day." Opening his eyes again, he stared at the ceiling.

Phlox spoke up almost immediately. "Believe me, Crewman, he's been through worse and survived it." Walking to the counter he prepared another hypospray. "This will make you sleep, so I can tend that leg without causing you any undue discomfort. You should wake up in a few hours, and I want you to remember to _stay in bed_ this time, young man."

The doctor was taken aback when Malcolm put a restraining hand on his arm. "Doctor, I was wondering if you could hold off on that for a few minutes? I need a word with him…alone."

Phlox looked as if he was going to protest but at last nodded. "Very well…but only a few minutes, Lieutenant and only if it's all right with Mr. Saunders," he stated firmly, turning his attention to his patient. Saunders nodded mutely. "As you wish. I'll be back in a few minutes." The doctor drew the privacy curtain back around the bed as he left.

Saunders spoke first, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. "Sir…may I know what I did?"

"Come again?" Malcolm asked, genuinely perplexed.

"I've been trying to work out what I did wrong this time, but I don't know what it was. You wouldn't waste your time hanging around Sickbay waiting for me to wake up unless I'd bol—" he caught himself before saying 'bollixed', pausing to find a suitable substitute. "Unless I'd screwed up somehow," he finally finished in a wavering voice. "If I may know what I did, sir?"

"First off, I don't view checking the medical condition of one of my men to be a waste of time," Malcolm answered quietly as he pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed. "Secondly…I wanted to speak with you this morning, but we got a bit…sidetracked, didn't we?" Despite having mentally run through what he wanted to say dozens of times, Reed momentarily faltered. Saunders was looking at him now, unable to mask his confusion and uncertainty.

"I was talking to Commandah Tuckah," the lieutenant continued, "and he helped me realize how unfairly I've treated you as of late. I'm hoping that you'll accept my apology."

David stared at him a long while before speaking. "You want to _apologize_…to _me_…" His voice trailed off, eyes still locked on the lieutenant's.

"Yes."

"And you're doing this…because…Commander Tucker _ordered _you to," he stated bitterly, eyes blinking rapidly several times.

Malcolm stared in shock at the crewman. "No, no," he assured Saunders, "that's not what happened. He just started talking about you and got me to thinking…and I realized what a git I've been." Sighing, he continued. "We've only been on this ship a few months, and I admit that it's taking some getting used to. Things are a bit more…_relaxed_…than I expected them to be. And I'm aware that I've been the butt of more than a few jokes around here because of my more…regimented manner. So when I entered the Armory a few weeks back just in time to hear what I took to be a mocking impersonation of me by one of my subordinates I did not react well. You should have been allowed the opportunity to explain what was going on but I denied you that chance.

"I also held onto my anger about the whole affair far longer than I should have, telling myself that I was teaching you proper discipline and respect for authority when all I was doing was making your life hell. Though I'm not sure you'll be willing to accept it—and I wouldn't fault you if you didn't—I owe you an apology and came to offer it." David's eyes were locked in a wounded stare that Malcolm found himself unable to break away from.

The painful silence stretched on until, no longer able to bear it, the lieutenant slid the chair back and rose to his feet. "Well," he said awkwardly, "I'd best be going before Phlox tosses me out."

"Lieutenant," Saunders called out as Reed turned to go; the lieutenant turned to face the injured man. "Permission to speak freely, sir?" David requested quietly, his voice respectful yet tinged with enmity and a hint of his grandmother's accent.

Malcolm at last nodded. "Of course." He settled into the chair again, waiting patiently as David gathered his thoughts. The crewman's eyes had gone several shades darker and sparkled with anger. His uncanny resemblance to Colleen McIntyre caused Reed to fidget uncomfortably until Saunders spoke, jaw firmly set.

"If any aspect of my behavior or service has been at all disrespectful then I deserve and accept the consequences, sir. However," he continued, narrowing eyes firmly set on Malcolm, "I feel there is something you should know. When I was growing up, I spent as much time with my maternal grandparents as I did with my parents—maybe even more. My grandfather is British, and proudly served a number of years in the Royal Navy. I have always strived to make him proud of me, not out of obligation or fear, but because I love him more than life itself. _He_ has already taught me a great deal more than most men know about _discipline_ and _respect for authority_, sir. If I _ever_ treated a superior officer with anything _less _than the utmost respect I would never be able to face Grandsir again. And I'd rather _die_ than allow that to happen." The privacy curtain slid open just as Malcolm opened his mouth to speak.

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant," Phlox interrupted, "but you have to go now."

He was going to argue with the doctor but a glance at Saunders drained the protest from him. The crewman's unblinking gaze had returned to the ceiling, his features as stern and unyielding as his grandmother's had been. Lips pressed firmly together Malcolm swallowed hard and slowly rose, silently nodding to Phlox before heading for the door.

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Early the next morning Lt. Reed showed up in Sickbay seeking out the doctor's help with a very stiff neck. Phlox, however, was nowhere to found. Looking toward the biobeds, he saw the privacy curtains drawn back and the head of Saunders' bed raised slightly: the patient was awake, staring at the ceiling looking bored out of his mind. Not wanting to intrude upon the man's thoughts Reed tried to remain inconspicuous as he drifted over to the opposite side of Sickbay, taking an uncharacteristic interest in the tools of the Denobulan's trade as he rubbed his neck.

"Sir?"

The moment Reed looked at him, Saunders began struggling to sit up straighter.

Malcolm motioned him down. "As you were, Saunders. Don't want you undoing Phlox's work. Where is he, anyhow?"

"Said he was going to the Mess Hall, but he should be back soon, sir." Looking away from the lieutenant, David squirmed nervously. Seeming to come to a decision he drew a deep breath, visibly steeling himself. "Would it be possible to have a word with you, sir?" Coming alongside the bed Reed nodded, suppressing a small smile at the lilt that had crept into the nervous patient's voice, and Saunders continued. "About last night, sir...I neglected to thank you for all your help, gettin' me up offa the floor and...everything."

"Well, you _did_ have a _few_ other things on your mind at the time. You needn't concern yourself about it."

David shook his head with a frown. "It was unacceptably ill-mannered of me. I was taught better than that, an' I'm sorry I forgot my manners with you last night. In more ways than one, I'm afraid." He paused to consider his next words. "If I might be a bit more candid, sir, I was more than a little put out atcha last night, after you tried to apologize to me. Got my knickers in a knot, as my mum would say. Consequently, I forgot something else I learned from my grandfather. He taught me that if someone offers you a sincere apology, it's rude and ungentlemanly, even uncivilized, to refuse it." Malcolm was both taken aback and relieved when Saunders extended his good hand. "Has to be properly done or it doesn't count," David said with an uncertain half-smile playing across his face.

Reed returned the smile, clasping the crewman's hand in his own as he nodded in agreement. "Feel up to a little company?"

"Certainly, sir." He gave a puzzled look as the lieutenant, absently rubbing the back of his neck, pulled up a seat. "Is there something wrong?"

"Just a stiff neck. Must've slept wrong…thought the doctor could give me something for it." David looked pensive, and Malcolm noticed. "What is it?"

"I was worried about that yesterday, sir. When you fell asleep in the chair, you had your head at a bit of a bad angle. That might've brought on the stiffness." Reed tried to nod in agreement, flinching at the pain that the movement brought. "Maybe he'll use the bat," Saunders suggested solemnly, shocking the lieutenant.

"What makes you say that?" Malcolm asked, suddenly very nervous and not too eager for the physician's return.

David shrugged his good shoulder. "Well…all the animals in his little menagerie seem to have some sort of medicinal uses, but I've never thought to ask what he uses the bat for. Maybe she's a masseuse." His delivery was so serious that it took a few seconds for Malcolm to catch on. At last he caught the twinkle in the crewman's eyes and both men laughed.

The doors opened and a breathless Crewman Atkinson rushed in with a small bag. "Hey Dave, sorry I can't stay long but we're shorthanded in the Armory today so I've gotta get—" She stopped short at the sight of her smiling CO standing next to her friend's bed. "Hello, sir," Atkinson nervously addressed Reed.

"Good morning, Crewman," he chirped pleasantly. "Heading to the Armory from here?"

"Yes, sir. Just dropping this off on my way." There was a long silence as Atkinson's attention shifted between the two men. "Well...I'd best get going."

"Nonsense," Reed objected as he rose from his seat and stepped back from the bed. "There's not that big a rush for you to leave, though when you do get to the Armory, I'd appreciate it if you'd let them know I'll be along in a little while. Now, I'll let you two have a visit." He hid his amusement at Miranda's confusion. "Oh...you didn't happen to see Phlox while you were on your way here, did you?"

Miranda nodded, still thrown off by the lieutenant's genial air. "Yes, sir. He was in the Mess Hall with Chef, getting a tray for David. Said he'd be back here shortly, sir."

"Excellent. Thank you, Crewman," he added, moving to the other side of Sickbay and perching on the exam table.

Miranda watched after him then at David, who looked as though there had never been a problem with the lieutenant. _Men,_ Atkinson decided, _are strange. Very, very strange._ Sometime when Lt. Reed was out of earshot, she'd ask Dave what the hell she'd missed, or if they should be checking their CO for signs of alien mind control, but for now she opted to put it out of her mind and enjoy her visit with him.

Sitting up, Saunders reached out toward Atkinson. "Tell me you found it, Randy," he said, twitching his fingers impatiently toward the bag.

"Oh ye of little faith," she teased, handing the bag to David.

Saunders eagerly reached in and extracted a small, well-worn leather-bound book. "Grand, you _did_ find it," he exclaimed as he laid the book on his lap, lovingly caressing the cover. "This is great, Randy. Thanks so much! Phlox wants to keep me here a couple days, and I'll go barmy if I don't have something to read."

"I can bring something more after my shift, if you want. That's the only one you asked for by name so it's the only one I grabbed."

"That would be grand, if it's not a total pain. What else is in here?" he asked, hefting the bag and puzzling over the faint sloshing sound coming from it.

Atkinson smiled. "Made a deal with Phlox. He's bringing the food, so I brought the beverage. Go ahead," she urged. David drew a thermos bottle from the bag, struggling briefly to unscrew the lid one-handed before handing it off to Miranda. Grinning she removed the cap, holding the container under his nose.

After taking a whiff he gave her a stunned look. "You _didn't_…"

"I most certainly _did_. It was a little insulting being told that North Americans are incapable of preparing a proper cup of tea, you know."

"I _never_ said that," David objected. "Grandma'am and Grandsir are the ones who said that. All _I_ said was that I'd never met a North American outside of my immediate family—"

"Who knew how to do it _properly_," Miranda finished for him. "Yeah, I know. To be honest, I'm not _certain_ that _I _got it within your exacting standards, but I figured it was worth a try. Had to dive into your secret stash, you know," she added conspiratorially. "Hope the Earl Grey is okay—that's what you had the most of. Couldn't run the risk ruining the last of the rooibos, after all," she grinned.

He inhaled from the thermos again, smiling wistfully. "I believe my exact words were, _'_I've never met a North American outside my immediate family who would _admit_ that they knew how to do it properly.' And it smells grand. Want some?"

"Nah…I'm a coffee person, remember?" she replied, handing over the thermos. "You did say 'no cream, no sugar,' right?"

He pulled a face as she wheeled a nearby utility stand closer to the bed. "Urgh. Never with Earl Grey. Clashes with the orange," he told her, and she laughed in reply. Retrieving a cup from the bag she perched it next on the stand before reclaiming the thermos and pouring some of the hot liquid into the cup. Stepping back she watched him take a sip, waiting for him to render a verdict.

His eyes closed in bliss. "Marvelous," he cooed, eyes still closed. "But I should warn you," he added teasingly, "if Grandma'am finds out you can brew tea she _might _very well make you _marry _me."

"I. Don't. _Think. _So. The man _I_ marry has to know how to _cook_."

"I can cook," he replied, feigning wounded pride. "You said you _enjoyed_ that pie."

"I did, but that's _baking_, not cooking. I'm talking about being able to put a meal together—and I don't mean throwing together a hamburger or a grilled cheese sandwich. I mean _real _food…actual _meals_."

"Not asking much, are you?" David teased. "Personally, I think grilled cheese sandwiches _are_ real food. Besides, Grandma'am probably won't be interested in your requirements for a man. The tea's the important thing."

"Well, then I guess we just won't tell her…just to be on the safe side. And if you _do_ tell her," she grinned wickedly, "I'll just have to tell her that I have seen you make the stuff with a coffeemaker."

"You _wouldn't_. No...strike that. You _would_."

"You better believe it. Now, do you need anything else before I go?"

"Tea and Kipling, and breakfast on the way…who could ask for more? Thanks for everything, Randy. I _really _appreciate it. But you better get going or you'll be late for your shift."

Atkinson nodded. "Happy to help. Of course, I'm gonna make you pay me back by hitting you up for climbing lessons. Wait a sec, that's a bad position for eating." She adjusted the back of the bed so David was sitting upright before stepping away. "Okay…gotta go…don't forget, you're gonna teach me to climb as soon as Phlox gives the green light," she said, heading for the door.

"You're on," he assured her as the doors closed. After nursing the tea for a few more sips he set the cup on the table, turning his attention to the book on his lap.

Tenderly running his fingers over the cover once more he opened the slender volume, pouring his entire attention into the text. After reading several pages he cautiously perched the open book between his chest and his still-bandaged left hand before reaching for the cup of tea with his right. He drank in slow sips, savoring the beverage with absolute delight. Returning the empty cup to the table he resumed reading.

Malcolm watched all of this in rapt fascination. Until now he'd thought he was the only tea drinker on _Enterprise_, except for T'Pol and her herbal blends. Well, there was also Captain Archer with his—gads—_iced_ tea. _'Leave it to the North Americans to take a beverage as refined and civilized as tea and turn it into something akin to soda pop.'_

Yet here was this American crewman drinking fresh-steeped tea as though it were the most precious beverage in the world (which, in Reed's opinion, it was, excepting perhaps a pint of Guinness). _'And to top it off, he's reading Kipling.'_ Deciding he must have heard wrong, Malcolm worked up the nerve to speak. "Did you say 'Kipling'?"

"Hmm?" Saunders replied distractedly, obviously entranced by the book. A second later he remembered that he wasn't alone and looked up sheepishly, sitting up straighter. "I'm sorry, sir…forgot you were still here. Did you need something from me?"

Malcolm smiled. Bored with waiting, he approached the bed. "As you were, Crewman. I was just wondering what you were reading. I thought I heard you mention Kipling earlier. Hard not to eavesdrop in here," he added apologetically as he pulled up a chair and sat.

"Yes sir, it's Kipling," David answered, noting the astonished expression on the lieutenant's face. "You seem surprised, sir. Not a fan?"

"It's not that. It just seems a little…uncommon, that's all."

"Perhaps, but I enjoy him. This," he explained, motioning to the book, "caught my eye from its home in Grandsir's study. Probably because I was just learning to read and this was one of the smallest books there. At the time it didn't seem as intimidating as Homer or Dostoevsky, and it was a great deal easier to lift off the shelf than _The Collected Works of Shakespeare_. In retrospect, _Barrack-Room Ballads_ probably wasn't an ideal choice for someone just starting to read, but it certainly was interesting." He smiled wistfully then went on. "I honestly believed that Grandsir didn't know I was sneaking it off the shelf every chance I got. Thought that I'd put it back exactly as I'd found it each time, until I pulled it down and a note fell out of it. All it said was, 'Do you have a favorite?'

"Thought at first I was done for. I couldn't put it back on the shelf fast enough. Didn't touch it again for almost a week. One evening a few days before I went home I found it perched quite conspicuously on the nightstand of my room, along with the note. Figured it was time to make a clean breast of it and found him in his study, waiting for me. _Smiling_. He sat up half the night with me, reading it to me 'til I fell asleep right there on his lap. To this day his study is my favorite room in their whole house. And I can't read this without hearing his voice. He gave it to me before I left for _Enterprise_." Embarrassment suddenly clouded his face. "Sorry, sir…didn't mean to ramble on like that. Must've bored you just about to death."

"Not at all. So," Malcolm ventured after a moment, "do you? Have a favorite?"

"I've always been fond of 'The Shut-Eye Sentry'."

Reed's eyebrows shot up in amusement. "Your favorite is one about a drunken officer?"

"Well…yeah, it is. When I was a kid I liked it for the mental image of the stuff the guy's doin' when he's drunk, but when I got older I started to appreciate the idea of his men takin' care of him while he's out of his head. Still do."

The doors slid open to admit Phlox, who was carrying a tray laden with food. "I wasn't certain what you'd like, so—why hello, Lieutenant!" the doctor greeted Malcolm happily. "Here to visit Crewman Saunders, hmm?"

"Yes, but that's not the only reason I'm here," Reed stated as he stood, rubbing the back of his neck again. "Think I slept wrong…woke up with a bit of a stiff neck. Anything you can do for it?"

"Of course, just let me put this down," he said as he placed the tray on the table at Saunders' bedside. "I see Crewman Atkinson made her delivery," Phlox observed. "How did she do with the tea? She said she wasn't sure it would be up to your grandparents' high standards."

David laughed. "She worries too much—it's grand. But geez, Doc, how many of me did you think you were feeding?" he asked as he looked over the varied foods on the tray. "This is great, but there's enough to feed a small village here."

Phlox chuckled. "Yes, well…I neglected to find out if you had any preferences, so I had a talk with Chef and this is what he came up with."

"Scones? Chef made _scones_? Gad, I'm gonna hafta get busted up more often," he joked.

The doctor chuckled as he guided Malcolm to the exam table. "I'll pass along your compliments to Chef the next time I see him. Now, Mr. Reed, let's see about your neck."

Saunders called out to the man as Phlox scanned Malcolm's neck. "Have you gentlemen eaten yet? There really is more here than I can possibly eat. You're welcome to join me if you want," he offered.

Phlox shook his head, grinning. "In all honesty, I couldn't resist—I sampled one of your scones on the way back from the Mess Hall. Quite excellent, by the way. How about you, Lieutenant—have you had breakfast yet?" Malcolm's stomach betrayed him, rumbling loudly before he could answer. "I'll take that as a 'no'," Phlox remarked jovially, administering a hypospray. "This should provide relief in a few moments. Are you going to take up Crewman Saunders on his offer?"

Before he could decline David spoke up, holding a domed plate cover aloft. "You'd really be helping me out, Lieutenant. Chef kinda went overboard—there's enough bangers and mash here to feed the entire Armory staff. Plus I've got a thermos full of tea that'll go cold before I can finish it."

Malcolm considered gracefully declining but his stomach rumbled again and he relented. "Well…how can I turn down scones and fresh-brewed tea?"


	4. Chapter 4

_"Several have lost their feet and will not regain them."_

Ensign Sato shook her head in frustration—that _couldn't_ be right, could it?—and successfully resisted the urge to smack the comm panel with her fist. When she'd first heard the faint, distorted message Hoshi had thought it might be some obscure Klingon dialect, but the cadence was wrong. Klingon had a guttural, brusque sound to it, and though this language possessed a similar throaty quality and much of the clipped abruptness of Klingon there was an almost musical trilling, chirping sound to much of it. When she'd played a bit of the message for the subcommander to see if the language sounded familiar to her, both of T'Pol's eyebrows had shot upward in obvious surprise and what Hoshi thought looked almost like a nanosecond of alarm. The Vulcan had consulted the computer for a few seconds before suggesting that Hoshi try accessing the G'l Benai language samples in the Vulcan Database.

Hoshi thought it had been a match until this most recent segment, toward the end of the transmission, had finally yielded to the translator. She tried to eliminate more of the interference before running that section through the translator again, and got the same result: _"Several have lost their feet and will not regain them." _Going back to the beginning of the message, Hoshi cleaned it up as much as she could and ran the whole thing through the translator, hoping that something there would give meaning to the strange statement. She had to run it once more before the entire message was successfully converted into English.

With a relieved sigh Sato at last met the expectant gaze of her captain. **"**Sir, I've got a translation of the whole message. It's a distress call." At a nod from the captain she began the playback.

A deep, surprisingly calm growling male voice filled the bridge, sounds of small explosions and circuits sizzling audible in the background. "This is civilian transport _Koshneer_. We have come under attack within the perimeter, by Human vessel designated _Cobalt_. Shielding has failed, weapons offline. Engines inoperative. Life support failure is imminent. Several have lost their feet and will not regain them. Immediate assistance requested. Advise the Council of Generals that a threat to the people exists—the Humans may remain within the perimeter. Possibility of invasion exists." There was another explosion, far louder than the others, and a woman's howling scream, then silence.

"Open a channel," Archer ordered. Hoshi nodded and the captain addressed the G'l Benai. "_Koshneer_, this is Captain Jonathan Archer of the starship _Enterprise_. We are trying to pinpoint your location so we can assist you. Please respond."

After a brief silence a woman's voice came through. "Scout vessel _VekCha'a _to _Koshneer_. Assistance unavailable. Status update."

"_Koshneer_ to _VekCha'a_." Much of the calmness was gone now, replaced by tense, barely contained fury. Circuitry continued frying in the background. "Life support has failed—less than ten minutes atmosphere remaining. Helm control gone. Propulsion gone. Primary shields offline. Secondary shields restored. Torpedoes restored, manual launch only. Two remain to provide cover fire for escape vehicles. " His voice leveled, taking on an air of reverence. "Three crew and four passengers have gone to dwell with the Ancestors so far. Probable that we shall soon join them. Avenge us."

"Hoshi—all channels," Archer demanded urgently. "This is _Enterprise_—we are available to assist you."

"Captain," Lieutenant Reed interrupted, "I believe I've found them. At top speed we can be there in about an hour."

Archer turned to Ensign Sato, his voice urgent. "Hoshi…anything?"

She shook her head. "As far as I can tell they _are_ receiving us, sir. They're just not responding."

With a frustrated sigh he demanded, "Try again. This is _Enterprise_ calling civilian transport _Koshneer_. We have received your distress signal and are en route to assist you."

A few seconds later they heard the woman's voice again. "_VekCha'a_ to _Koshneer_. Message from Council as follows: Assistance unavailable. Defensive protocols enacted. We grieve with you and mourn your loss. Live with honor, die on your feet. Know that your deaths shall be avenged and your kinsmen shall feast on your attackers."

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"The G'l Benai are a felinoid, militaristic, warrior species." T'Pol brought up a computer-generated image on the forward viewscreen showing a sleek muscular humanoid with distinctly leonine characteristics, with short tawny fur and thick black mane, clad in high-collared body armor and holding a large sword with a sickle-like curve at the last third of the blade. "Their average height is two-point-one to two-point-three meters," the Vulcan informed them. "There are variations in their markings, with some G'l Benai having spots and others stripes, as well as those whose fur is solidly colored. They possess claws three to five centimeters long as well as fangs that are seven to ten centimeters in length. Their weaponry includes swords, daggers, and plasma rifles carried in holsters on their backs. There are unconfirmed reports of some G'l Benai soldiers making use of spears and bows and arrows. Our information indicates that in most cases they prefer either hand-to-hand combat or their more primitive weapons."

"Doesn't seem like a bow and arrow or a dagger would be much of a match against a phase pistol, or any other energy weapons for that matter," Archer observed, leaning forward in his chair as he stared intently at the screen.

"They are not," T'Pol agreed. "However, the G'l Benai are known not only for their strength but also for speed and stealth. An energy weapon is of little use if one does not have the opportunity to _use_ it. From what we know of them, the G'l Benai view the use of archaic weaponry to be a display of battle prowess, with plasma rifles being used either for long-range battles or against foes they deem to be unworthy of what they believe to be an honorable death."

Lt. Reed smirked. "They must get along _famously _with the Klingons."

"As a matter of fact, they do not," the subcommander corrected him, either missing or ignoring the attempted jest. "A number of years ago the Klingons attempted to annex a small section of G'l Benai space. The G'l Benai successfully drove them out and have considered the Klingons to be mortal enemies ever since. There is also a fierce and longstanding enmity toward Orions and Nausicans, and several skirmishes between the G'l Benai and Andorians have been reported.

"Vulcans have had only one direct encounter with them. Several years ago one of our survey ships entered their territory and was disabled and boarded in a matter of minutes—the G'l Benai possess transporter technology and were able to beam their soldiers to critical areas of the ship simultaneously, leaving little opportunity for successful resistance. I've accessed the visual file of the incident from the Vulcan Database." T'Pol paused to punch a command into the computer and the viewscreen sprang to life, showing the bridge crew of the Vulcan ship being set upon by G'l Benai soldiers.

The sound was deafening, the felinoid soldiers' roaring almost—but not quite—drowning out the shouts of the Vulcans. Although the soldiers carried rifles in holsters on their backs none used them, opting instead to fight hand-to-hand. When the Vulcan helmsman tried to aid his captain one of the younger soldiers leapt upon him. The helmsman got in several solid blows, actually seeming to gain ground for a moment before the staggered G'l Benai regained his balance. In an instant he lunged forward with a snarl and snapped his jaws together right next to the Vulcan's head, leaving a gaping, bloody hole where the helmsman's ear had been.

The G'l Benai soldiers soon towered victoriously over the bridge crew, roaring triumphantly. Their leader, who looked almost identical to the image T'Pol had used earlier, silenced the cacophony with a single shout before seizing the kneeling, bloodied captain by the throat and lifting him effortlessly from the floor. An expression of ecstasy came over the G'l Benai's face as he licked the blood from the Vulcan's lacerated temple, growling low.

T'Pol paused the playback before speaking. "As you can see, the G'l Benai possess exceptional strength, speed, and agility. And they are apparently as…harsh…with their own people as they are with outsiders," she told them before resuming the playback:

"_First Tactical," the G'l Benai captain barked, tossing the Vulcan captain into the nearest chair, "Report." He spared a moment to warn the Vulcan, "Move from there and your crew dies."_

_A voice crackled over the communications headset their leader was wearing. "My captain, no other intruder vessels visible in the area."_

_The captain nodded, satisfied, before shouting again. "Second Tactical!" The young G'l Benai who had bitten off the helmsman's ear stepped forward, bowing low before snapping to attention in front of his leader. The captain surveyed with approval the green blood staining the man's reddish-brown muzzle before continuing. "Appraisal?"_

"_There could still be another vessel—it could be camouflaged, awaiting an opening to attack."_

_"Would they stand and do nothing while we lay waste to this vessel?"_

_"It is possible, my captain. If this vessel is merely a decoy, they could consider it disposable. Indeed, it may even be their intention to sacrifice this vessel in order to gain an advantage. Without knowing more about these…__creatures__…and their motives for invading our territory, it is impossible to know for certain."_

_Mulling over the possibilities, the captain came to a decision. "Second Tactical, access their computer and transmit data to First Tactical—I want to know everything about these creatures and the reason for their incursion."_

_Second Tactical vaulted to the computer console and set to work, retrieving a scanner from his belt and checking the console. A frustrated sigh escaped from him a moment later._

_His captain frowned. "Is there a __problem__, Second Tactical?"_

"_Slight difficulty comprehending the controls, my captain. A few moments—" An ominous click interrupted him, and Second Tactical looked up to see that his captain had drawn his rifle from its holster._

_The captain thumbed a switch on the butt of the rifle and the weapon hummed to life. "You have thirty seconds to resolve the difficulty before I have to start looking for a new Second Tactical," he warned. Second Tactical merely nodded then turned his full attention to his work._

"_Twenty seconds," the captain said, casually flicking off the safety. His officer seemed not to hear him, but several of the warriors nearest Second Tactical fearfully moved away. Ignoring them the young man continued working, fingers gracefully flying over the console._

"_Ten__ seconds," the captain growled in annoyance. Moving toward his officer, he pressed the thick barrel of the energy weapon into the center of Second Tactical's forehead, nudging the man's head back several centimeters. Without looking up the lieutenant slowly curled the fingers of his left hand around the barrel of the rifle and moved it, repositioning the barrel so that the muzzle rested on the bridge of his nose squarely between his eyes._

_Baring his teeth the captain wrapped his finger around the trigger. "__Five__."_

_Another two seconds passed before Second Tactical spoke. "Transmitting, sir," he reported, his voice almost tranquil._

_Although he moved his finger away from the trigger the captain kept the weapon trained on the young man's face. "Explain your reason for handling my weapon," he demanded, voice low and ominous._

_Second Tactical cautiously raised his head and gazed at his commanding officer. His voice was soft but unwavering as he answered. "My captain, given the known recoil of the weapon, the possibility existed that the position was inadequate to insure a clean kill. If that occurred, it would have called into question the excellent marksmanship of my captain, which would have been unacceptable." The captain pondered this a moment before nodding and chuckling with satisfaction, lowering the rifle._

_The G'l Benai captain's communicator crackled again. "First Tactical reporting, my captain. Information we are receiving seems to be predominantly scientific in nature," he reported, 'scientific' being said with undisguised disgust. "Minimal tactical or military information. Their species is apparently called 'Vahl-khan'."_

"_That is correct," the Vulcan captain said. "We are—"_

_The G'l Benai captain seized the Vulcan's throat in his massive left hand and easily lifted the strangling man from the chair. _

"_You were not granted permission to speak, Vahl-khan," the G'l Benai captain snarled. "Since you are obviously an uneducated species, I will overlook such a breach—but only once. If there is another such display of insolence," he threatened, raising the rifle still clutched in his right hand, "you will die on your knees." With that he let go, dropping the Vulcan unceremoniously back into the chair. Aiming the rifle at the empty chair in front of the helm he squeezed off a single shot, smiling as the bolt of energy explosively shattered the chair into dust. "Do you comprehend?" he snarled. The Vulcan captain nodded wordlessly, and the G'l Benai powered down the rifle. Second Tactical's scanner chirped._

_"Second Tactical reporting, my captain. Transfer complete."_

_"Good. Step forward, Second Tactical." After securing the scanner to his belt the lieutenant leapt over the console, landing almost silently in front of his captain and coming to stiff attention. "Explain to me, Second Tactical, the delay in accessing their computer."_

"_My captain, I had some small difficulty due to the console's unfamiliar configuration and language."_

_And do you deem the delay to have been acceptable?"_

"_No, my captain," the young man replied without hesitation._

"_Clarify—why was it unacceptable?"_

"_Sir, if there had been a second vessel laying in ambush, the delay would have given them ample opportunity to launch a counterattack, endangering the lives of my captain and his crew. My delay was contrary to the demands of my duty to protect my captain and his crew."_

"_You have held your new rank and position for only a few days, so I hesitate to bring disciplinary action." The captain paused, weighing his options._

_After a short silence Second Tactical spoke. "Apologies my captain, but…I would speak." The captain nodded wordlessly so Second Tactical continued. "Discipline must be maintained. My failure endangered all of you. The number of days that I have held my rank and position is irrelevant—leniency breeds dishonor." _

_Apparently satisfied with this reply the captain nodded before swinging the butt of his rifle around. It connected full-force against the left side of Second Tactical's head, sending the young man sailing across the bridge. Dazed and bleeding he struggled to his feet, only realizing his mistake when he was knocked backward by a savage blow delivered full in the face. The rifle still holstered on his own back slammed painfully into his spine as he landed, knocking the air out of his lungs. He lay perfectly still, gasping for breath._

_Finally the captain spoke. "__Now__ you may get up. And do not forget to retrieve __that__," he added, pointing to a bloody incisor on the deck. As Second Tactical struggled uneasily to his feet, the captain holstered his rifle as he turned his attention back to the Vulcans. Snarling, he delivered an ultimatum: "You will return to where you came from, or we will send you where you belong."_

The screen went black. Archer had trouble finding his voice at first; when he finally spoke his voice was almost too soft to be heard. "How many fatalities on the Vulcan ship?"

"Amazingly, none, though several dozen were critically injured. It is believed that the attack was merely a warning against future incursions into G'l Benai space." She aimed a meaningful look at the captain. "We have respected their wishes and stay clear of their territory."

"They get that helmsman's ear reattached okay?" Trip asked.

T'Pol shook her head. "There was nothing _to _reattach. Apparently, it was…ingested. Several others throughout the ship suffered similar injuries—one other ear, some fingers, one hand which, though not entirely ingested was too badly damaged to be repaired, and, if I recall correctly, a nose."

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

He bloody well didn't _like _it. In light of what T'Pol had shown them going after these G'l Benai was damned near suicidal but Captain Archer, who had already made up his mind to help these people, had oh-so-politely dismissed his concerns about the potential hazards. Even T'Pol pointing out that the people they were rushing to help would view them as invaders hadn't shaken the captain's resolve. Malcolm had nevertheless given his staff a briefing preparing them for the possibility of a dust-up with the G'l Benai and letting them know that he expected them to be ready for trouble. He didn't even want to _think_ about what 'defensive protocols' entailed, and that bit about 'your kinsmen shall feast on your attackers' had sounded far more like a promise than a threat.

Reviewing information at his bridge station, the lieutenant shook his head ever so slightly. For all they knew, the distress call was a ruse to draw in fresh victims. After all, if the _Koshneer_ was in such dire straits why had they totally ignored Captain Archer's repeated attempts to communicate? Hoshi had double-and triple checked her readings, and there had been little doubt in her mind that the messages had been heard. It seemed more than a little suspicious that they would disregard offers of help after claiming to need assistance.

And if it _wasn't_ a trap? _That _meant there was something even meaner and more dangerous than the G'l Benai lingering around out there somewhere, probably looking for someone else to pounce on. The _Cobalt_ was a freighter, hardly a match for any vessel that a warrior race would be likely to have. It didn't make sense for them to have launched an attack against _anyone_, and it made even less sense that they would have not only attacked but handily trounced a shipload of well-trained soldiers. Judging from the footage T'pol had shown them these people made Klingons look like pacifists, so how could a freighter crew have so easily defeated them? The whole situation smelled like month-old fish.

Malcolm scowled as he checked long-range scans again, one corner of his mouth giving an involuntary twitch. The _Koshneer _captain had identified their attackers as Humans; that all but guaranteed that any G'l Benai encountered along the way would be looking for payback and weren't bloody likely going to care that _Enterprise _was there to help. They'd be looking for blood—specifically, Human blood—and he was quite certain that _any _Human blood would do. They had tossed those Vulcans around like rag dolls, so what kind of chance would a Human stand in hand-to-hand combat? And the sword from the Database image, similar to an ancient Egyptian khopesh, was not something that he'd be eager to encounter in a fight. Nor for that matter was he too keen on the possibility of getting an archery demonstration from one of these G'l Benai.

Malcolm was startled out of his ponderings as T'pol's deceptively serene voice broke the tense silence. "Captain, we have visual contact with the _Koshneer_."

The image of a drifting vessel came on the view screen, debris and what looked like cargo containers floating gracefully nearby. Sleeker than one would expect of a mere civilian transport, it was only slightly smaller that _Enterprise's _saucer section.

"Bring us in closer, Travis," Archer said before asking T'Pol, "Anything on sensors?"

The Science Officer shook her head. "Except for gravity and emergency lighting all systems appear to be down, and there are no biosigns. However, our scanners are having difficulty penetrating the lower decks of the craft. It is possible that there is some sort of dampening field in place."

Archer looked to Malcolm. "Any other ships in the area?"

Lips pursed in concentration as he studied the readouts, Reed finally shook his head. "No sir…we seem to have the place to ourselves," he said, satisfied that they were, at least for the moment, safe. "Captain, _some_ of the debris appears to be from the G'l Benai ship, but there are also fragments that look to be hull material from an Earth ship. And I'm not finding anything that looks like a docking port."

The captain nodded. "Let's get a line on her, Malcolm. Don't want her drifting too far away."

Reed expertly fired the grappler. "Got it," he reported, feeling a too-familiar sense of unease creeping over him.

"Let's get a closer look," Captain Archer said, thumbing the comm button on his chair. "Archer to Engineering. Trip, I want you to go to the _Koshneer _with Malcolm and Hoshi to assess the damage and see if you can find any sort of log entries in their computer. Suit up and get to the transporter."

Malcolm refrained from sighing aloud but couldn't help thinking, '_Oh, this is going to be __grand_.'

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

The three EV-suited forms materialized at the front of the _Koshneer_'s dimly lit bridge, which was a good bit smaller and more elliptical than its counterpart on _Enterprise_. A large viewscreen filled the curved front wall of the room. Each side wall of the bridge had two small control panels, with larger stations not unlike those on _Enterprise_ set a meter or so away from the walls. A control panel curved gracefully along the contour of much of the back wall, with large doors on either side of it. There were no steps—rather, the floor sloped subtly upward from the viewscreen toward the back wall.

After looking around the room Hoshi broke the silence. "There aren't any chairs. Where do they sit?" The emergency lighting flickered ominously, threatening to go out altogether before settling back to their previous steady dimness.

"Maybe they don't," Trip replied casually, approaching a smashed control panel in the wall while Malcolm checked the shattered, burned-out station in front of it. "Or maybe they just kinda squat down on their haunches. I mean, they're catlike, right?"

"Oh, right...of _course_," Malcolm said dubiously, humor leaking into his voice. "_Quite_ like Earth cats…except for the part about them being seven feet tall and able to overpower a shipful of Vulcans without breaking a sweat. I'm sure if we look around here long enough we're certain to find a room with massive scratching posts and the galaxy's largest ball of yarn." All three chuckled.

"Don't forget the catnip," Trip added. "Prob'ly a cargo bay full of catnip. Y'know," he said with a sigh, scanning the panel, "we're gonna have to get some power to these before we can really figure out what _any_ of 'em do. Looks like what little bit's still running is on emergency power now, an' it looks like _that's_ fading."

"Don't suppose _this_ one does much of _any_thing any more," Reed said, motioning to the ruined station in front of him. "It's been totally blown apart. Glad _I _wasn't near it when it went."

"S_ome_body was," Trip told him as he lightly brushed his fingers over the wall before him. "Got blood and alotta white hair embedded in what's left of this control panel. Looks like the explosion tossed them right into it."

"'_Launched' _would probably be more accurate," Malcolm corrected him, moving to the next station where a brief, faint flicker from one of the charred displays had caught his attention. "Looks like _this _one's still got a little life left in it." Scanning the flickering console, he double-checked his readings before declaring, "I _think_ this is their tactical station—or what's left of it. I think it might be at least partially operational with a little bit of work."

"I wonder if the rest of the ship is this bad," Hoshi pondered from the other side of the bridge, where she'd been surveying the damage to the remaining two stations.

"I'd say that's a safe bet, Ensign," Trip drawled. "Once we're through here we'll have a look around. Can you make out any of the writing on the controls?"

She shook her head. "It's a very pretty, elaborate script, but with nothing to use as a reference point it's going to take a while to work it out." Scanning the stations for a minute she came to a decision. "I _think_ that one is engineering, and this one," she motioned to the one toward the back of the bridge, "is for communications."

"If Malcolm's right about that one being their tactical station," Trip said with a nod toward the console in front of the lieutenant, "then maybe this one's the helm?" He shuddered to think of Travis being caught in an explosion similar to the one that had taken out the helm on this ship.

They moved to the doors at the rear of the room, expecting to find some sort of lift or perhaps a briefing room. After forcing the doors open, however, they found no briefing room but rather multiple ladders lining the darkened shafts that led down through the ship.

Hoshi gazed down one of the shafts then looked to her companions. "They don't sit, and they climb through their ships on ladders…"

"You know," Malcolm offered as he scanned the starboard shaft, "it looks as if there _is_ a lift down here…just seems to be stuck about halfway down." Moving to the other shaft and scanning it, he continued. "There's wreckage down this one—lift must have come loose altogether. None of these ladders look too promising, either. Looks like this lift failed and dropped to the bottom, and took out some of the ladders on the way down."

Trip and Hoshi moved away from the door as Trip tapped his comm button. "Tucker to _Enterprise_. Captain, we're gonna need an extra set of hands over here, and some power cells from Engineering."

"T'pol will be there shortly," came Archer's reply. "How bad is it, Trip?"

"Pretty bad, sir...looks like they really got their teeth kicked in," Trip answered.

"Sir, a few work lights would help, too," Malcolm suggested, still peering down the black vertical tunnel. "Their emergency lighting is sketchy at best. I'd also like a word with Crewman Saunders—he should be in the Armory."

"Must be something mighty interesting down there, Loo-tenant," Trip teased.

"Not certain, sir," Reed replied quietly, all business and more than a little ill at ease. The helmet lights weren't quite able to penetrate all the way to the bottom and he didn't much like the idea of clambering around in the dark. And although he knew it wasn't possible he could swear that, for just a fraction of a second, he'd seen two glowing eye-like pinpoints of light staring back at him.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Internal sensors were limited but were functioning enough to let him see that these honorless vermin had boarded his captain's ship. Access to the molecular transport system would be ideal but the system was presently damaged and offline. Still, he allowed himself the small luxury of imagining using it to send their worthless carcasses into deep space where they belonged. He allowed himself another few seconds to consider which would be more satisfying—to scatter their molecules to the stars or allow them to re-materialize. The latter, he decided, so they could linger, drifting, aware of their impending deaths. That was the way it was usually done, after all.

His moment of fantasy over, he set about planning. Squinting at the panel, he studied the image of the Human ship as he coughed, spattering the inside of his helmet's faceplate with blood. He swallowed the mouthful of blood that had come up from his lungs then gripped the sides of his helmet, holding it steady as he licked the inside of it clean with his long, broad tongue. Turning his attention back to internal readings he noted that there were now five of them on Control Deck—a few moments ago there had only been three.

'_Brazen, cowardly, honorless, motherless sons of vermin!' _he thought to himself. He continued to silently curse the aliens, their ancestors, their ship, and their homeworld. He cursed the shattered ribs driving into his lungs, cursed the zero-atmosphere light armor he'd had to don which, although keeping him alive was also hindering his movements and slowing him down. He wanted to engage the intruders, wanted to feel his teeth sinking into their tender throats, claws tearing through soft flesh seeking out the organs beneath. Mostly he wanted to taste someone else's blood besides his own. What he wouldn't give to be able to retrieve his longbow and personal sword from his quarters—he wanted to watch the arrows impale these animals, wanted to cleave their bodies in two with his own straight-bladed sword rather than the curved blade issued to all warriors. He imagined the heavy blade slicing through the enemies, fantasized about plunging the tip into their weak little bodies and watching it come out their backs. They were such tiny creatures...he thought surely three of them would fit easily on the blade. The thought of it made him lick his chops in anticipation, leaving bloody streaks along both sides of his snow-white muzzle. _'Concentrate,'_ he told himself, stifling another bloody cough._ 'Duty before gratification. Mustn't let the stimulant cloud my thinking.'_

Saying a silent prayer to his Ancestors, he flicked a couple controls. The Ancestors were apparently smiling upon him for the monitor on the console in front of him sprang to life, giving him a clear view of the entire Control Deck. The invaders appeared to be attempting to access Control Stations and the Captain's Station. _'Stupid creatures. They will probably kill themselves before I get a chance to do it.'_ He smiled softly as he thought about the security protocols his captain would have activated before leaving Control Deck. Watching these ignorant animals blow themselves up _might_ be almost as entertaining as actually killing them himself if not for the annoying fact that they might wind up blowing _him_ up as well.

He was beginning to feel groggy again, and the pain in his chest competed for superiority against the throbbing in his skull and the burning in his hands and arms. With would-be conquerors scampering around his captain's ship, he knew he couldn't risk losing consciousness again, no matter how briefly. Thanks to his medkit, however, that hazardous annoyance could be avoided. Reaching down to the small box on the utility belt of his protective suit, he extracted a hypospray and weighed his options. It would alleviate much of the discomfort, but more importantly the stimulant would bolster his strength and keep him awake and alert for the next several hours—long enough to help him kill these creatures and destroy their ship. On the other hand, he'd already taken a full-dose just before the rest of the crew had been forced to flee. Another dose this soon could be dangerous, even lethal. And there was always the potential loss of mental control to consider. He could not effectively defend his captain's ship if the drug drove him to madness.

Sparing a glance back at the view screen he laughed out loud. One of the little vermin was trying to access Tactical Station._ 'As long as he doesn't wind up destroying my captain's ship, this could be entertaining,' _he thought as he used the hypospray, bracing himself for the unpleasant initial effects of the stimulant.

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T'Pol and Hoshi watched as Saunders and Trip helped Malcolm up from the floor, the lieutenant glaring at the now-smoking console as if its explosive demise was a personal insult.

"You okay, Mal?" Trip asked, not believing the silent nod Reed gave as reply. "You took a heck of a jolt. Better lemme take a look." The engineer scanned his friend, concerned that either the electrical charge, explosion, or Malcolm's impact with the wall and floor had damaged the suit's systems. "Everything still looks functional—you _sure_ you're alright?"

"I'm _fine_," the annoyed Brit fumed, "but I don't understand what happened. It should be working, not…_smoldering_."

"Try bein' an engineer sometime. First thing ya learn is that there is almost no limit to the number of ways a repair job can mess the bed."

Reed wasn't having any of it. "It should be _working_," he repeated, angry stare still fixed on the controls. "It wasn't as badly damaged as the other stations. I could understand one or two displays going out, but the whole bloody station blowing up in my face?" He met the questioning gaze of his worried crewman and, features softening, gave the man a nod. "I think the fireworks are over…carry on, Mr. Saunders."

"Aye sir," David replied smartly, returning his attention to the rappelling gear he was setting up in the port turbolift shaft.

"It is possible," T'Pol offered as she returned to the long console at the rear wall of the bridge**, **"that the G'l Benai sabotaged it before they left. I doubt that they would want to risk others gaining information about their tactical systems."

Malcolm slowly nodded in agreement. "So they sabotage what they think are sensitive systems. Fair enough. But how do we know what _else _is going to blow up in our faces?"

T'pol raised an eyebrow, slowly lifting her hands away from the console's controls. "An excellent point. It may be prudent to run additional scans before proceeding further."

"Thought you _liked_ blowin' things up, Malcolm," Trip teased.

"Not when I'm standing in front of them, thank you," the lieutenant shot back good-naturedly before turning his attention back to Saunders. "How's it going, Crewman?"

"Good to go, sir," Saunders replied brightly, giving an extra tug on the lines before lifting a harness from his equipment case and holding it out. "Just need to get you harnessed up." Reed nodded then set about putting on the harness. "I ran some additional scans," Saunders offered as he helped the lieutenant fit the harness over the EV suit. "Looks like somebody was on that lift when it gave way—there's a lot of biomatter at the bottom of the shaft.

Reed shook his head. "Damn. Nasty way to go," he murmured without thinking.

"Aye, sir…that it is," the crewman agreed somberly. He paused before asking, "Are we going deck-by-deck, sir?"

"No. We've been able to get fairly decent scans of most of the ship, except for the lowermost decks. They've got some sort of material or shielding that our scanners can't seem to penetrate, so we're going to have a look at what they're hiding."

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'_So…the surprise my captain left at Tactical hasn't deterred you. You seek still more? I shall provide a __splendid__ surprise for you._' Pacing, he pondered his options carefully. He was already prepared for the enemy's ship, torpedoes loaded and programmed to unerringly seek out their targets. Smiling as he looked at the targeting display on the wall he stroked the hatch of the nearest torpedo tube lovingly, successfully resisting the urge to open fire now. First he would deal with the intruders.

_Koshneer_ was an older ship but in the days before its conversion to a civilian transport it had carried mighty warriors into glorious battles against, among others, Klingons, Andorians, and Nausicans. True, it had never held the same status as a Saber-class battle cruiser, but this Dagger-class light troop carrier had held its own many times against the enemies of the G'l Benai. And it would again, if only this one last time.

Praise the Ancestors, its Battledeck had been left mostly intact during the conversion to a civilian transport, its armaments deemed too outdated to be transferred to other vessels. This suited him: in many ways he preferred _Koshneer's _weaponry to the modern automated systems. He did not believe it took as much skill to use targeting scanners as it did to manually target the torpedoes, and the newer systems depended almost exclusively upon scanners. And, in a worst-case scenario, the older torpedoes had a default setting to simply home in on the nearest non-G'l Benai vessel—a feature deemed unnecessary in newer weaponry.

More importantly, the Battledeck was almost entirely self-sufficient. Extra plating and dampening fields made the deck virtually impervious to enemy scans, a back-up control panel enabled him to access several systems throughout the rest of the ship, and the independent auxiliary generator had allowed him to keep at least some of the weapons systems up and running. He was able to scan portions of _Koshneer _to check on the intruders and had managed to access Surveillance, allowing him to eavesdrop on them. He could even watch them as they wandered around Control Deck. The only thing he lacked was life support but for the time being the armor provided for that. Perhaps after he'd killed these invaders and destroyed their ship he could concentrate on getting at least minimal life support on Battledeck. He'd give half his tail to take off his helmet even for a few minutes.

He returned to the monitoring console to further observe the trespassers: three were still on Control Deck, monitoring various consoles and stations. Murmuring a short prayer to the Ancestors that these fools wouldn't trigger the autodestruct with their blundering, he turned his attention to the missing two. With the sensors it only took a moment to find them descending into the lift shaft. Surveillance was damaged there so he couldn't actually _watch_ them until they left the shaft, but he _could_ chart their progress with internal sensors.

They were almost halfway down the lift shaft now. Horror filled him as he realized what that meant; in a few minutes these Ancestorless heathens would be upon the bodies of his fellow G'l Benai, his _family_. Who knew _what _sort of defilements these honorless vermin were capable of? Rage threatened to overcome him but he fought to push it aside. For the moment he needed to think clearly.

A plan for the intruders solidified in his mind and he began furiously working at the portion of the wall console devoted to communications. First he would have to activate the translator so that these infidels could understand his words when the time came: he wanted them to know what was going to happen to them, wanted there to be no doubt in their minds that they were going to die for their crimes.

Then he had to ensure that the message—the idea of his battle-brother, Troshk—was ready to be played back. Both men had known that a boarding party was a likelihood and had wanted to offer a challenge to their attackers, even if it had seemed unlikely that either man would live long enough to follow through on any threats they made. He had recorded it after their attackers' ship had moved off, certain that the honorless vermin would return to scavenge the wreckage. It was a fitting tribute to his fallen battle-brother that the message would be put to use after all; it would provide a fine diversionary tool. He could use the comm system built into his armor to activate the playback when the time was right.

Next he hurriedly tied the controls for the emergency blast doors into internal sensors—when they had advanced far enough down the corridor the invaders would trigger the doors, cutting themselves off from the rest of the raiding party as well as their ship. He'd already chosen where to stage the actual assault and should have ample time to get into position. But how would he get _them_ into position? Mind racing he at last smiled, bloodstained teeth peeking out from beneath his lips. Curiosity seemed a strong trait in these creatures, judging from the way they studied everything on Control Deck. He could use that curiosity to his advantage—if he tinkered with the nearby launch bay doors he might be able to use them to attract the attention of the Humans. Ancestors knew the doors were certainly loud enough to draw the attention of even the dullest-minded creature.

The lights might be a bit trickier to manage. Lighting systems had automatically switched to emergency conservation mode when life support had been compromised, the extra power used to buy a few more precious minutes of air for the escaping passengers and crew. Giving it a few seconds of thought he realized that he might be able to…'_yes, that should work'_. With a little creative rerouting he was able to rig the corridor lights to very gradually brighten, tying the controls into those for the blast doors. Once the doors were secure the lights would brighten, though imperceptibly at first. _He_ could see in almost total darkness even without the stimulant heightening his senses, but he'd heard that Humans had very weak vision even in full daylight. And it was vitally important to him that these creatures see their fate.

In a flash of inspiration he returned to the communications controls. '_They should __all__ see, should they not?'_ It took only a moment to tie Surveillance into the comm system, then a moment more to tie into the internal sensors. When they approached the launch bay doors Surveillance would begin transmitting sound and images. '_Let their comrades see the fate that befalls those who would make an enemy of the G'l Benai.'_

He strode purposefully to another console, across which the corpse of his fallen comrade lay face-up. He gazed through the cracked faceplate into the huge, copper eyes of his ebony-furred ally, expending enough oxygen to speak in a deep, rumbling voice to his comrade. "Troshk my friend, my battle-brother…forgive me but I must leave you for a short time. Our captain's ship has been boarded and I must tend to the intruders." Removing his sword belt he reverently laid the sheathed weapon across Troshk's chest for safekeeping. His dagger remained strapped to his thigh, and he let his gloved fingers caress the hilt of the weapon as he moved back to the first console.

Dimming the remaining lights he tapped a control on the side of his helmet, darkening the outside of the faceplate to the same matte black as the rest of the suit. Now he was ready for them. He would watch the monitor long enough to see them reach the bottom of the shaft, then hide himself in the launch bay and wait for them to come. By rights he should just use a rifle to dispatch them—they possessed no honor or souls, after all—but he decided that these heathens would meet their deaths on the blade of his dagger. Though theirs was unworthy blood they deserved to suffer for the crimes they had committed, and the rifle would kill them far too quickly.


	5. Chapter 5

They stopped their descent about twenty feet from the bottom, surveying the bodies and wreckage below them. Malcolm realized that the eyes he thought he'd seen earlier were just that: the unseeing emerald green eyes of a young G'l Benai woman stared up at them as they hung in midair over her.

She'd landed flat on her back amidst the wreckage of the lift, left arm tightly clutching to her chest a blanket-wrapped bundle less than a meter in length. Fragments of bloodstained ladder and lift supports jutted out from her body and the blanket, massive amounts of blood staining her uniform, the bundle, and the thick snow-white fur covering her body. On the floor her blood had mingled with that of three other G'l Benai whose shattered bodies lay around her. Blood had poured from her half-open mouth, staining her throat and sides of her leonine muzzle, forming a gruesome halo around her head as it had pooled on the floor.

Her battered right hand had flailed out beside her, and had obviously clawed through the gore and wreckage after she'd landed. The other bodies also showed signs of movement after their fall; their deaths had been neither quick nor painless. Malcolm's best guess was that, rather than being _in_ the lift, they'd been climbing down the ladders sometime _after_ the lift had dropped. Obviously the ladders hadn't held any better than the lift had.

The lieutenant heard Saunders stifle a retch and turned to the young man dangling next to him. "Saunders," he said sharply, "Are you alright?"

There was a pause before the crewman's shaky voice came back over the comm. "I think so, sir."

"Well trust me, one thing you _don't _want to do is throw up in an EV suit. If you can't pull yourself together you'd best start back up now."

"No sir…I'm fine, sir," Saunders assured him, his voice stronger now. "I'm O.K."

"Good lad. I don't fancy going it alone down here, you know." They finished their descent in silence, Saunders wondering how the lieutenant could be so totally unaffected by the gruesome sight below them and Reed silently forcing the bile back down his throat.

They finally touched down; carefully avoiding contact with the bodies, they detached themselves from the ropes and pulled out their scanners. Malcolm cautiously crouched near the woman's body to study the bundle then squeezed his eyes shut as he slowly straightened, turning away from the small white-furred face and frightened sapphire-blue eyes staring blindly back at him.

"How's it going, Malcolm?" Captain Archer's voice came over the commlink. "Have you found anything?"

Holstering the scanner, Reed tapped the comm button on his EV suit as he and Saunders exited the shaft. "Nothing but corpses and wreckage so far, sir. Five bodies at the bottom of the turbolift shaft…looks like the ladders gave way while they were trying to evacuate."

"Do you think those are the warriors mentioned in their last transmission?"

Reed shook his head grimly as he looked back at the bodies. "I doubt it, sir. Two of them do appear to be wearing uniforms, but the other two are much older and are wearing what looks like civilian clothing. The fifth is a young child." He and Saunders gave a start at the same time as they heard a faint, rhythmic sound coming from somewhere down the long dark corridor. Weapons and scanners drawn, they cautiously advanced toward the sound, maneuvering around large chunks of wreckage.

"Stand by, Captain," Malcolm said, his voice low and husky with caution. "We may have found something."

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"False alarm, sir," Reed reported with a mix of annoyance and relief a few minutes later, shaking his head as he holstered his phase pistol. "It's just a malfunctioning door." He watched the tall, wide doors slide open, hesitate for a second, slide shut, then open again. What he could see of the shadowy room beyond hinted at either a cargo hold or launch bay. "No emergency lighting in _there_, but it still seems to be functional out _here_...for the time being, at any rate," he added as he put away his scanner. Casting a look around the dimly lit debris-strew corridor he spotted a suitable piece of beam near the crewman and motioned to it. "Saunders, bring that here. We can use it to block these doors open so we don't have to listen to them opening and closing all day." David nodded, retrieving the long piece of metal.

As the men jammed the beam into place, Archer's puzzled voice came over the link. "Hoshi, did you get the comm system working over there?"

Hoshi, still on the alien bridge, seemed equally puzzled as she responded. "No sir. Why?"

"Because we're receiving visual images over here. Malcolm…we can _see _you."

A moment later Trip's voice came over the comm. "Viewscreen on their bridge just lit up, too. Take a quarter-turn to yer left, Malcolm."

The lieutenant complied wordlessly, gazing around the corridor until he spotted a faint green light in the high ceiling. "That light wasn't there before," he said as he warily approached it, Saunders close behind.

"Yer lookin' right at the camera, fellas," Trip told them. "Musta triggered some sorta surveillance system or something."

"If that's the case," Saunders pondered aloud, "why is it transmitting to _Enterprise_? Shouldn't it just be transmitting to somewhere within _this_ ship?"

Reed nodded thoughtfully, studying the shallow box protruding from the ceiling. "That _would_ make a lot more sense…unless the system was damaged in the attack. I wonder if it's a ship-wide system or—" He was interrupted by a wailing tone that started low, quickly rose in pitch, then dropped back down.

As the klaxon sounded Archer's urgent voice broke in. "Reed, Saunders, get out of there! You're being sealed in!"

David and Malcolm looked back the way they had come to see a huge door sliding rapidly across the corridor about thirty feet away from them. As they raced for the door an automated female G'l Benai voice joined the siren, repeating the same message over and over. "Deploying blast doors. Battledeck. Grey Section."

They reached the door a few seconds too late, only a few meters from freedom when the thick obstruction slammed into place with awful finality. In frustration Malcolm pounded the palms of his hands against the unyielding metal, the clicks and hisses of locks and seals being activated driving home the severity of their predicament. Throughout the corridor they could hear the muted sounds of additional distant doors closing and locking. The alarm and automated warnings at last fell silent.

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Despite a thorough search of the walls along either side of the door the men found no sign of control or access panels of any kind. Having to vent his frustration, Reed at last broke the tense silence. "Who the hell puts in a door with no bloody way to _open_ it?" he bellowed, glaring at the door before turning back toward the camera, tapping his comm button. "Reed to _Enterprise_—we haven't found a way to override this door. Can you get a lock on us with the transporter?" No response. "Reed to _Enterprise_—Captain, do you read me?" Silence. "Commander Tucker?" His call was met by more dead air. "Subcommander? Hoshi? Anyone there?" He cast a worried look to David. "Saunders, can _you_ hear me?"

"Loud and clear, sir," the crewman replied with a nod, trying to hide the nervousness in his voice.

"Try hailing the ship," Reed ordered as he began scanning the door and corridor walls.

David's attempts were met by silence. "No good, Lieutenant," he reported. "I don't know if they're not reading us or we're not reading them, but either way we're cut off."

"Not entirely, I think," Reed replied, turning his attention back to the green light in the ceiling. "That light hasn't gone out, so presumably the surveillance system is still transmitting. If so, we might be able to tap into it and re-establish two-way communication. Provided, of course, we can find some tools to work with."

"Find anything with the scanner, sir?" Saunders asked hopefully.

Reed shook his head as he walked down the corridor, stopping beneath the surveillance device. "Not really. I'm not sure if it's the construction material or if there's some sort of shielding. Maybe a dampening field. Whatever the case, I can't get any sensible readings." He knew Saunders was nervous but didn't realize how severe the situation was until he looked over at the young man.

The crewman had gone totally white. Sweating profusely, eyes squeezed tightly shut, he seemed to be struggling for breath as he leaned a hand against the bulkhead. He was trembling visibly, and Malcolm could barely make out his voice whispering what sounded like 'not now' over and over.

"Saunders? Are you alright?" Malcolm asked worriedly. When he got no reply he quickly walked to the stricken man, planting his hands firmly on the crewman's shoulders and shaking him once. "David!"

Saunders' pale blue eyes snapped open at the lieutenant's shout, meeting his worried superior's gaze. "I…I'm sorry, sir," he stammered faintly, obviously fighting to regain his composure. "I'm alright. I…I just…" A mortified sigh escaped from him. "I'm so sorry, sir. I've let you down."

"Tell me what's wrong," Reed demanded gently, hands still on the crewman's shoulders.

David looked away but another small shake from Malcolm brought his eyes back to Reed's. He took a deep breath before answering, unable to mask the shame in his voice. "You'll think it's idiotic, but I'm…I'm a little…claustrophobic."

Malcolm blinked, digesting this bit of information as his hands dropped from David's shoulders. "Claustrophobic…" he finally said. Saunders merely nodded. "Crewman, you work on a _starship_. It doesn't get much more claustrophobic than that." Another nod. "This doesn't make any sense—I _know_ that you are more than capable of working in tight spaces. Hell, I had you in and out of the bloody torpedo tubes just last week. How in blazes can you be claustrophobic?"

Saunders swallowed hard, a touch of Irish lilt creeping into his voice. "I knew you'd think it was idiotic," he said as he looked back at the blast door. "It's not small spaces so much as…not being able to get _out _of them. Being trapped. The imaging chamber in Sickbay just about sends me 'round the bend, once the door slides shut." Closing his eyes, he took a deep breath then looked back at his CO. "I'm okay, sir. It just takes a couple seconds to…rein it in. I'd hoped to pull myself together before you noticed. And yes," he added bitterly, certain that Reed must now think him an irredeemable coward, "I know how stupid it is. Believe me, my father never misses an opportunity to let me know _exactly_ how weak-kneed I am."

Malcolm stared into the younger man's angry eyes a long moment before speaking, his voice soft and reassuring. "Being afraid doesn't make you 'weak-kneed', Mr. Saunders. It simply makes you human. We _all_ have our fears to deal with."

"_You _don't," Saunders replied without hesitating. "You're not afraid of _anything_."

Eyes twinkling, Reed laughed aloud. "You don't know me as well as you think," he said. "The trick is learning to control the fear instead of being controlled _by _it."

David nodded, though doubting that anything really frightened his CO, and stared at the doors they'd wedged open earlier. A faint smile flickered across his face. "Well, at least _those_ are still open. Makes it feel a _little_ less…confining. Any idea what's in there, sir?"

The lieutenant gave a shrug. "What I could make out looked like a launch bay, or maybe a cargo hold. Hopefully we can find some tools in there to use on that surveillance system and try to contact _Enterprise_. Maybe they've got some ideas about getting us out of here."

Saunders looked up at the high ceiling as the men approached the doors. "Think we'll be able to find a ladder, sir?"

"I wouldn't get my hopes up too much, but I suppose it's possible. Must think happy endings, Crewman."

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A brief investigation revealed the room to be a sizeable launch bay. One huge shuttlepod-like vehicle remained; the crew had apparently been in the midst of repairs or maintenance on it when they'd been attacked. While Reed checked a tool case magnetically fastened to the floor near the shuttle Saunders checked several storage containers tethered to the wall until he found a large, trunk-like one that he deemed promising. "Think I've got our ladder, sir. Or as close as we're gonna get to one," he reported, cautiously unfastening the tethers and opening the container. After a stunned silence he called to Reed, his voice slow and higher than usual. "Lieu_ten_ant…you _miiight _want to take a look at this." Seizing several tools from the tool case Malcolm approached the crewman's find, watching intently as Saunders struggled to lift an object from the trunk. Saunders finally managed to hoist the energy rifle from its home, cradling it in both arms but looking as if he expected it to bite him. Reed gave a low whistle, placing the tools on the floor and squatting next to his shipmate.

Saunders offered the weapon to the lieutenant. "Watch it, sir—thing weighs a ton," he warned. "Container's full of them."

Malcolm took the weapon, straining to hold the weight of it as he stood up. "If the weight is any indication, this brute must pack quite a wallop." He studied it carefully, turning it over admiringly before gently placing it on the floor next to the container. Motioning to it he said, "I think this _will_ provide enough height. Let's get it emptied out so we can move it." As they worked Malcolm kept glancing at David. Although there was no visible sign of the earlier panic the man _did_ hesitate several times to glance around the dark launch bay.

Catching Malcolm checking him, David smiled awkwardly. "I really _am_ all right, sir," he tried to reassure his superior. "There's just something unnatural about an empty ship. Probably a real beauty before this happened. And now…"

"Mmm," Malcolm agreed, nodding. "From active vessel to lifeless derelict in the space of a few hours. However, in light of _this_," he added, hoisting the last of the rifles from the trunk, "I've got strong doubts about this being a _civilian _transport. There are identical containers over there," he pointed out, tilting his head toward a stack of crates tethered to the far wall, "plus that warning message referring to this as a 'battledeck'. Civilian vessels don't _have _battledecks. _Or _massive caches of weapons." He laid the rifle with the others.

"Well," Saunders considered as he closed the crate, "maybe—since they're a warrior race—this is as 'civilian' as they get." Reed placed the tools on top of the trunk then the men seized the handles and carried it toward the doors.

"I suppose it's _possible_," Malcolm conceded, obviously unconvinced. Toting the empty trunk from the launch bay neither man noticed the dark humanoid form hiding in the rafters, observing their every move. It waited until the men were well out of the room before stealthily creeping along the rafters toward the doors.

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He had not known until now how much self-control he possessed. While rummaging through the tools, the one called 'Lieutenant' had been directly beneath him. It would have been such an easy thing to drop down on him, an effortless kill. The impulse to do so had been almost overwhelming—a drawback of the stimulant he'd used earlier—but in the end he'd been able to stifle the desire. Instead of killing 'Lieutenant', he had merely observed the intruders from his vantage point atop the rafters, moving only once to blend more readily into the shadows when he'd noticed 'Crewman' repeatedly looking around the launch bay as if suspecting his presence. However, neither creature seemed to possess enough instinct to fully sense that they were being stalked.

He wanted to take them in the corridor. Setting the inner launch bay doors to repeatedly open and close had been meant to draw his prey far enough down the corridor to trigger the blast doors as well as far enough from the blast doors to prevent the invaders' escape. That they possessed enough intellect to jam the doors open had been unexpected, as had been their decision to enter the darkened bay. He'd had to scramble for a hiding place, hunting and survival instincts and his warrior training driving him to the highest spot he could reach. Heart fluttering madly in his chest as he climbed, he fought to slow his breathing. Another drawback of the stimulants was their tendency to make the user's body consume additional oxygen, and he knew his reserves would run out soon. Still, it should be enough time to dispatch them and their ship before The Ancestors called him to dwell with Them.

Watching them struggle with the rifles had provided some entertainment and he felt his racing heart slow to a more tolerable pace. Judging from the tiny weapons they had with them as well as how they had handled the rifles, they were unaccustomed to handling real weapons and apparently lacked the physical strength to wield them even when given access to them. At least they had displayed a small amount of proper respect for the rifles—even though the weapons had been left on the floor, the humans had at least placed them there with appropriate reverence and caution. If he lived long enough after killing these creatures he'd have to remember to return the guns to their case. It wasn't proper to leave fine weapons for long upon the ground, after all.

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Still in their EV suits, helmets in hand, T'Pol, Hoshi, and Trip stood on the bridge of the _Enterprise_ as Jon reacted to Trip's news that the blast doors on _Koshneer_ were impenetrable.

"I won't accept that, Commander," Captain Archer snapped at Trip angrily. "There has _got_ to be a way to get them _out_ of there!"

"And I wish I could tell ya how to do it Cap'n," Trip replied, equally frustrated. "Only other option I can come up with is to plant explosives an' try ta blow the door. Problem is, our explosives expert is on the wrong side of the door, an' if he _were_ here I'm pretty sure he'd say the amount of explosives we'd need to take out that door would kill everything on the other side." As T'Pol moved to the Science Station Archer and Tucker turned their attention back to the view screen, watching as Reed and Saunders carried a trunk-like container into the corridor and toward the camera. The voices of the trapped men, unintelligible while they were in the launch bay, were once again crystal-clear.

"Captain, if you're still receiving this, we're going to attempt to access their surveillance system," Reed explained to the camera. "With any luck we'll be able to tap into the audio components so we can reestablish two-way communication. I hope Trip and Hoshi won't take this the wrong way," he added as he and David slid the trunk beneath the camera, "but I almost wish they were here with us—they might have better luck figuring this out. Give us a hand up, Saunders," he said, and the crewman helped him boost himself onto the trunk. The men disappeared from the screen, the camera unable to lock onto them while they were directly beneath it. Saunders reappeared a moment later as he eased back toward the doorway of the launch bay.

"Oh, and Captain," Reed said, "tell Commander Tucker that if he's considering explosives, forget it. I suspect the only thing we've got potent enough to do the job would be a torpedo. Plasma torches _might_ do the trick, but I imagine it would take quite a while." Archer and Trip exchanged disheartened looks: the plasma torches had been thwarted by some sort of shielding protecting the surface of the doors. That the trapped men had heard none of the racket—or expletives—the failed attempt had produced filled their would-be rescuers with despair.

For a few minutes the only sound coming over the comm was that of Reed trying to gain access to the surveillance system's circuitry. "Saunders made an interesting discovery in their launch bay, by the way," Malcolm continued. "They have a large cache of weapons in there." He grunted as he tugged at the stubborn ceiling access panel just behind the camera box. It yielded after several forceful yanks and Reed handed the cover down to Saunders, who had returned from peering through the doors.

"I have strong doubts about this being a _civilian_ ship, Captain," the lieutenant continued. "In case you missed the warning message that accompanied the doors sealing shut, we're currently on what they call a 'battledeck'."

"You mentioned torpedoes, sir. What about aiming one at their outer launch bay doors?" Saunders asked as he set the cover aside. "Lowest yield, of course. If we close these inside doors the bay should contain most of the damage. It would probably still be unpleasant in here, but if we went far enough down the corridor we'd be away from the worst of it. Might even be able to jimmy the doors to one of the rooms further down, take shelter there. I know decompression would be a problem, but not an insurmountable one."

The bridge crew on _Enterprise_ could almost hear Malcolm thinking the suggestion through in the long silence that followed the crewman's idea. "That plan," Reed finally admitted, "has merit, Mr. Saunders. Think we should hold off on it for a bit," he added loudly, for the benefit of those who he hoped were listening from the Bridge. "Once we contact the ship we'd be better able to coordinate exactly what we'd be doing. So fingers off the trigger for the moment if you don't mind, Captain."

The significance of Saunders' suggestion to close the doors was not lost on Malcolm. He knew that those open doors were helping the crewman contend with feelings of claustrophobia that had been almost overwhelming. He had taken the man's gazing through them as being an attempt to fend off another panic attack; that the man had evidently been gauging the ability of the doors to withstand a torpedo blast was, to Malcolm's mind, a marvelous show of strength. God knew if the potential solution to their predicament had been to flood the corridor with water, he didn't think he'd have been able to suggest it.

"Lieutenant, does it seem brighter in here?" David asked.

"Our eyes have adjusted to the lighting—makes it seem brighter. Come up here and help me figure out these circuits." Saunders quickly complied, leaving Captain Archer and the bridge crew with nothing to see but the vacant corridor.

As the two stranded men quietly debated which circuits did what, Archer turned to his Chief Engineer. "Transport back over there. I don't care what you have to do, Trip—take every plasma torch you've got, rip out one of the phase cannons and take that if you need to, but Get. Them. Out of there. We'll work on Saunders' idea about a torpedo from here and hope we don't have to go through with it."

"Aye sir," Trip nodded, heading for the turbo lift.

T'Pol's voice stopped him as he reached the lift. "Captain, I've analyzed the images we've been receiving, and Crewman Saunders is correct. Illumination at their location _has_ increased."

Trip stepped toward the subcommander and gave her a puzzled look. "That's not possible. The whole ship's dead, 'cept for gravity. I figure gravity must be tied into a separate generator or somethin'. The consoles on the Bridge flickered for a while but went dead not too long after that one Malcolm was workin' on exploded. The only lighting on their bridge besides what we took with us was really weak emergency lighting."

"Indeed," T'Pol agreed, "and _that_ failed shortly after Lieutenant Reed and Crewman Saunders began their descent. Nevertheless, there _is_ functional lighting at their present location, and it _has_ increased."

"How does that help us?" Archer asked, getting a silently raised eyebrow from T'Pol.

Trip shrugged. "It doesn't, really. We can see them a little better," the engineer offered. "An' they can see their surroundings." As he pondered the possibilities Trip mentally kicked himself. "Power. That's the only section of the ship with any real _power_…for the surveillance, the doors, the lights, gravity…there must be an independent power source."

T'Pol nodded. "Which may be why they are now trapped. Their presence in that section must have activated a defense system linked to that power source."

"Any idea what kind of automated defense mechanisms their ships have?" Archer asked her.

"No. I was unable to retrieve any information from their computer while we were there. It is possible, however, that the console that blew up when the lieutenant tried to access it was sabotaged to prevent tampering."

Trip looked like he was about to throw his helmet across the bridge in frustration. "So, even if we _could_ find a control panel to open those doors, messin' around with it could trigger some sort of boobytrap. That's. Just. _Great_."

"And if _they_ find controls for the door," T'Pol continued the line of thinking with a glance at the viewscreen, "they could also set off a 'boobytrap'. And we have no way to warn them of the potential danger."

Saunders' voice interrupted any further discussion on board _Enterprise_. "Lieutenant…do you see that?"

"See what?"

"Over by the blast door, sir. I thought I saw something."

"There's nothing by the door, Crewman. I need you to concentrate on the task at hand, if you don't mind."

"Along the ceiling," Saunders persisted, "near the door. There was a reflection. I only noticed it once I was up here. Look."

"Saunders," Malcolm snapped in annoyance, "I _really_ need you to pull yourself together. There is _nothing_—" Turning his head toward the blast door he was brought up short as his own helmet lamp reflected light from a small, slender spot in the ceiling near the door. One of the small panels close to the wall was a few millimeters shy of flush with the ceiling. He climbed down from the trunk and strode purposefully to the door until he was standing, he believed, directly beneath where the reflection had been. He looked first at the ceiling then at Saunders. "Still there?" he asked.

Saunders slowly moved his head from side to side: at first Reed thought he was shaking his head 'no' but then saw a broad smile spread across the younger man's face. "Aye, sir. Guess my trolley hasn't entirely left the tracks just yet. If you reached straight up you'd be touching it. Well," he corrected himself, "if you were over eight feet tall and reached straight up you'd be touching it."

Incredulous, Reed shook his head. "Here's another one to add to the list, Hoshi," he chuckled, still staring up at the ceiling. "They don't sit, they climb through their ships on ladders, and the wily S.O.B.'s seem to have put the door controls in the bloody ceilings. My apologies, Mr. Saunders." He turned to the crewman, who was still standing atop the trunk. "Crewman…we need to move your ladder." He started back down the corridor as Saunders climbed down from the trunk.

Both men as well as the bridge crew on Enterprise jumped as the _Koshneer_'s comm system crackled loudly. A deep angry voice growled loudly over the system. "Murderers. Honorless cowards. Ancestorless heathens. Defilers of elders and children. You think we are defeated. If you knew my people you would realize that as long as a single G'l Benai warrior remains, we have not been vanquished. You come to claim my captain's ship, but I vow before The Ancestors that it shall be very costly for you.

"You have shown your cunning in battle against _elders_ and _children_," the voice accused with a sarcastic sneer. "It shall be interesting to see how you fare against one whose teeth have not been dulled by age. I look forward to seeing you die on your knees."

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Simultaneously drawing their phase pistols, the men exchanged glances. With his left hand Reed pulled his scanner from his belt and began taking readings in the direction of the blast doors, staying close to the wall; Saunders followed suit, scanning the corridor behind him as Reed slowly approached him.

"Saunders," Reed called in an urgent whisper, "are you reading anything?"

The crewman flattened himself against the bulkhead as he neared the launch bay doors, scanning the dark room before answering softly. "Not getting anything here, sir. Anything there?"

Malcolm shook his head as he scanned a closed door midway down the hall on the opposite wall from the launch bay. "I'm not getting any readings past this bloody door," he hissed in frustration. "I'd love to know what the hell this ship's made of."

"Sir? According to the last message they sent, a couple people stayed behind, right?"

Reed shook his head. "There's no way they'd have survived this long without life support. Besides, if through some miracle they _had_, we'd be picking up their biosigns."

"Yes sir, but maybe they thought their attackers would be boarding the ship and recorded that message before they died. Could have thought it would intimidate a boarding party."

Reed looked at Saunders with a faint smile. "Are you feeling intimidated, Crewman Saunders?"

Saunders nodded, returning the smile with a brief one of his own. "Damn straight, sir."

"Mmm. Voices from beyond the grave are a bit disconcerting, I suppose. Though I'd like to think I'd find a little better use for my last five minutes of air." He paused a moment, recalling his last few minutes of useful consciousness on the freezing, oxygen-deprived shuttlepod with Trip. Pushing _that _cheerful memory from his mind he holstered his phase pistol and scanner. "Let's get out of here and let the dead rest, shall we?"

Saunders nodded in silent agreement, stepping away from the wall and waiting for the lieutenant to meet him at the trunk. He thought he heard a faint sound from within the launch bay but dismissed it. Knowing that he'd given the lieutenant enough reason to doubt his competence with his earlier panic attack, he was entirely unwilling to acknowledge an imaginary noise in front of his superior. Still, he gave the launch bay another scan for good measure and again came up empty.

Quickly tucking away his scanner and pistol he joined the lieutenant at the trunk. They lifted in unison and, trunk between them, started down the corridor. Hoping Reed didn't notice, Saunders cast a quick glance over the lieutenant's head as they once again passed the launch baby doors.

A huge black form rocketed out from the darkness, roaring in rage as it struck Malcolm dead center. The force of the impact sent Saunders and the trunk flying and propelled Reed face-first into the wall, with the alien colossus still on him. Malcolm howled as sharp searing pain shot through his back; at the same time his impact with the wall cracked several ribs and slammed his head painfully into the front of his helmet. Before he had a chance to struggle against the attack he felt himself being spun roughly around, his back ramming into the wall as fresh pain tore into his abdomen just beneath his rib cage.

He felt his feet leave the floor as the black-clad behemoth effortlessly lifted him, pressing its massive left forearm against his throat to pin his dangling form against the bulkhead. Gasping for air that wouldn't come, Reed pried reflexively at the increasing pressure against his throat. When that proved useless he reached for his holster, desperately searching for his phase pistol.

The holster was empty.

His attacker's face was hidden behind the black faceplate of its helmet but he could imagine what it looked like as its roaring, enraged voice reverberated in his ears.

"You would not look upon us as you sought to destroy us!" it screamed at him. "Would not even let us look into your eyes as you killed us! But you will look now, murderer—I will _make_ you look!" The alien raised its huge right hand, still clutching the large dagger it had just used on him, and tapped a control on the side of its helmet. Almost instantly the faceplate changed from matte black to crystal clear, giving Malcolm his first up-close look at a G'l Benai.

His adrenaline-fueled imaginings hadn't even come close.

Most of its white fur was streaked and matted with blood, a copious amount seeming to have flowed from a head wound and caked along either side of the wide nose and protruding muzzle. Innumerable scars crisscrossed the alien's bloodied nose and face—many were as fine as pencil-lines but at least two were almost the width of a man's finger. As the enraged creature spoke Malcolm got an all-too-complete view of its lethal, bloodstained teeth.

"Look well, honorless offspring of a Nausican _whore_!" it howled. "Gaze upon the face of your executioner." Pink foam lined the alien's mouth as it spoke, some spraying onto the inside of its already-spattered faceplate. Its wide tongue slid slowly out of its mouth, tip grazing bleeding nostrils before running along the gory lips to wash away the froth. Malcolm's stomach lurched at the apparent pleasure the creature took in the fluid's flavor. Having to look away from the mouth, Reed's eyes met those of his attacker. There was no discernible color to them except for huge black pupils filled with murderous hatred and rage.

Malcolm tried to speak despite the pressure at his throat. "We're not the ones who attacked you," he told the G'l Benai, his voice a strangled whisper. He tugged futilely at the alien's arm with both hands, trying to not think about where the dagger might be plunged next.

"LIAR! MURDERER! HEATHEN!" the warrior raged, leaning in close enough to strike his helmet against Reed's. His lips were out-of-sync with his words, which the lieutenant surmised was due to a translator built into the alien's helmet. He prayed it would accurately translate his _own_ words into the G'l Benai's language.

"I'm telling you the _truth_," Reed desperately insisted, straining to force the words through his restricted airway. "We heard your distress call and came to help you. You need medical attention—our doctor can tend your injuries, and then we can try to find the rest of your crew and get them safely home." Taken aback, the alien eased the pressure on Reed's throat. Hopeful that he could reason with the man, Malcolm kept talking. "When we heard the distress call we came as quickly as possible. We can help you. Dr. Phlox can fix you up, and we may even be able to help with repairs to your ship." Reed felt his feet touch the floor as the G'l Benai let him slide down the wall, though it kept him pinned to the bulkhead as it weighed his words.

A drowning man grasping for a lifeline that lie just beyond his fingertips, he gazed down at Malcolm, shoulders slumped with sudden exhaustion. "My captain's ship," he corrected, eerily subdued. "It is my captain's ship, my captain's crew. All are gone now." His pupils shrank slightly, revealing that his left eye was a brilliant, piercing blue while the right was jade green.

Malcolm seized the opening, praying that he wouldn't screw it up. "It might not be too late. We may still be able to help you find them…bring them back. That's the only reason we're here."

An ember of hope flickered in the massive alien eyes as they eagerly searched the lieutenant's face, tremors coursing through his immense body as he struggled to stifle a coughing spasm. A fine spray of blood found its way past his lips and onto his faceplate.

"Please, let us _help_ you," Reed urged quietly, surprised by his sincerity. This was one of the two who had stayed behind to lay down cover fire for their fleeing captain and comrades. The lieutenant could relate to that, no matter how foreign the ways of these people might be.

The heavy arm unexpectedly dropped away from the lieutenant's throat as the warrior staggered backward. Pupils shrinking to mere pinpoints he blinked drunkenly at Reed, swaying a bit before regaining some semblance of equilibrium. "All are gone now," he repeated in an exhausted, grief-filled wheeze.

"I know," Malcolm commiserated, eager to offer hope. "From what we can tell, your people got away. We didn't see any sign of them when we got here, and the only debris out there is from this ship as well as a good bit from the ship that attacked you. You did a good job on them, from the looks of it." Eyes drifting closed, the giant wobbled again. Malcolm resisted the urge to reach out a steadying hand, mindful of the dagger still clutched in the alien's hand and quite certain that any sudden move on his part would yield a _very_ unpleasant reaction from the man. Besides, he was barely keeping _himself _upright at the moment, leaning his back heavily against the bulkhead as he fought for breath.

The G'l Benai's tongue crept slowly out between his soft felinoid lips briefly enveloping the snotty, blood-coated nose before sliding back into his mouth. A small hissing sigh escaped from the warrior before he broke the nervous silence in a voice almost too quiet to be heard. "Ancestors help me, for my mind is clouded and I am _na'oosh tcha'ah_. Those I protected are gone now. Nothing left but _na'oosh tcha'ah_."

The lieutenant wasn't sure why the alien's translator failed on _"na'oosh tcha'ah" _and wasn't entirely sure it mattered, but it made him uneasy nonetheless. The broad body in front of him swayed again, like a drunk getting up from his favorite barstool, then steadied. Drawing himself up to his full height—which, Reed noted grimly, was a good deal more than T'Pol's estimated seven feet—the G'l Benai murmured to himself. More prayers, Malcolm supposed, but the words were too faint to be heard. In the relative silence the lieutenant could make out a hissing sound coming from somewhere nearby but his pain-addled brain took several precious seconds to determine what it was. One of them had, from the sound of it, a small but steady air leak.

He was certain it wasn't him. Well, _fairly _certain. The emergency sealant had worked where he'd been stabbed, and if one of his hoses had come off he would surely be unconscious—if not dead—by now. Sparing a glance at Saunders brought relief: though pinned by one leg under the heavy trunk they'd been carrying, the man was conscious and breathing heavily but without great difficulty as he worked to free himself. That left their volatile host, who was still muttering under his breath to whatever spirits or deities his people believed in.

The murmuring abruptly ceased and two soft but audible words passed through the furry lips. "Must…protect." The soldier's eyes opened, pupils so large the color of his eyes was again obscured. His nose wrinkled as his lips curled back, blood and spittle dripping from his teeth. Black eyes glittering with fresh hatred and fury glared down at Reed, and the smaller man felt his body go cold.

'_Bollocks.'_

"Please _listen_ to me," Malcolm urged. "We can help you. We can get you medical care, help you protect—" The gigantic left hand seized his throat, bashing the back of his helmet into the bulkhead.

"No more!" he raged at the lieutenant. "Your feeble trickery has failed, savage—I will hear no more of your deceptions!" Any shred of reason the alien may have once possessed had fled; the maniacal gleam in those black eyes was testament to that. A sinister smile spread across his feline face that made Phlox's full-face grin look not only normal but downright comforting.

Malcolm struggled uselessly against his attacker's grip then froze as the G'l Benai menacingly scraped the tip of the dagger across his faceplate. Part of his mind screamed at him to keep fighting, at least _try_ to get away, but shock and blood loss had caught up to him. He couldn't fight, couldn't break the beast's hold on him, could barely breathe. Mind and body overloaded, all he could think of was the pain and the curved, brutal blade again making its way noisily across his faceplate, a lethal fingernail scraping on a blackboard. As he felt himself losing consciousness he was briefly able to morbidly ponder whether the alien would stab him yet again or simply slice through his airlines and watch him suffocate. Gleefully tapping a cadence against the side of Malcolm's faceplate with the tip of the blade the soldier paid little heed to the hollow thump from the direction of Crewman Saunders.

An instant later the sound of several phase pistol discharges sent fresh adrenaline coursing through the lieutenant and he renewed his struggles. Despite Saunders' excellent marksmanship, though, the warrior remained standing.

The angry black eyes narrowed to mere slits, nose wrinkling and lips curling in an amused, deadly leer as it hissed at him. "His little toy gun does not seem up to the task, does it?" he gloated an instant before a bright flash enveloped the side of his helmet. Still the phase pistol had no obvious effect. He laughed maliciously as he used the knife to caress Malcolm's air hoses. The sound of metal scraping on metal distracted the G'l Benai and he turned his head toward the launch bay doors. A millisecond later found him staggering backward, having been struck full across the helmet with the length of beam that had been holding those doors open. Crewman Saunders, wielding the beam like an oversized baseball bat, bellowed as he took another swing at the huge head and again connected solidly, sending the stunned alien sprawling face-first down the corridor and into the opposite wall before slumping to the floor. Malcolm, meanwhile, dropped unceremoniously to his knees on the deck, gratefully sucking in air. Saunders stood breathlessly over Reed, leaning heavily on the beam.

Reed wanted to ask Saunders what had taken him so bloody long but the words caught in his throat as he finally got a good look at the crewman. Blood was fairly streaming from the man's nose, his face was ashen, and there were several areas of his EV suit where emergency sealant had closed up gashes in the material. And the lieutenant, horrified, finally realized where the air leak was.

"Saunders, your suit's been compromised—you're losing oxygen!" David stared at the fallen alien then staggered, the beam slipping from his grip as he dropped to his knees and pitched forward next to Reed. Malcolm made a grab for him, fingers latching onto the rappelling harness and pulling the man close. Expertly checking hoses he found the culprit and tightened it back into place. Thankfully the hose hadn't come off entirely: though his oxygen level was low, Saunders' air situation wasn't critical. Yet.

Still gasping, the crewman finally broke the silence, the Irish lilt subtly sneaking in. "He's a right…sturdy little fella…ain't he?"

Reed almost laughed out loud—_little fella, indeed!_—but his chest hurt too much. He settled for a smile and a nod.

Though still stunned David turned his attention to his wounded CO, pulling out his scanner to check the lieutenant's injuries. "He busted us up pretty good, sir, but if it's a contest I'd say you won. Five broken ribs and two stab wounds. All I've got is a bloody nose and the worst feckin' headache of my life."

"I suspect you've got more than that but I'm not going to quibble. Help me up."

"Probably not the best idea with those ribs floating around in there, sir, but you're the boss."

"And don't you dare forget it," Reed retorted. As both men painfully rose a growl drew their attention back to the G'l Benai, who was also struggling to his feet.

"Aw, shit an' molasses," Saunders muttered, "why couldn't the crazy son of a sea cook stay down fer a couple more minutes?" He handed his pistol to Reed and retrieved the beam. "Just so you know, sir," he warned, "the stun setting wasn't exactly effective on this bloke."

"Noticed that, did you?" Malcolm quipped. "Think you can get those opened back up?" he asked quietly, nodding his head toward the off-kilter doors of the launch bay.

David shrugged. "Won't know 'til I try, sir. What's the plan?"

"Well, if phase pistols won't slow him down maybe one of those half-ton rifles of theirs will," he explained conspiratorially. "And we'll have to see about getting those outer doors open."

Once the warrior regained his feet he raised his head to glare silently at the men, his face almost obscured by the blood coating the inside of his helmet. Facing them now he held his position as he studied them, undisguised hatred burning in his eyes as he struggled for breath. Looking first at Reed then Saunders he took an unsteady step toward them but stopped when Malcolm leveled the pistol at him.

"Stay _right_ where you are," Reed demanded firmly, trying to ignore the knife still clenched in the G'l Benai's hand. "Now...Let's. Try. This. Again. _We_ aren't the ones who attacked you. We. Came. To. _Help_. You." Unintelligible growls and snarls were spewed at the man through drawn-back lips and bared fangs. _'I'd have an easier time convincing a Klingon to join me for afternoon tea.'_

"You've made it rather clear, though," the lieutenant continued, "that you don't _want_ us here. Now, we'd be more than happy to leave if you would be so kind as to open the damned _door_." A series of loud, panting hisses was the G'l Benai's only reply.

Malcolm sighed in frustration. He thought of the number of times he'd seen Captain Archer attempt to reason with unreasonable aliens and felt a new level of respect for the man. _'How does he do this sort of thing without losing his composure? It's positively maddening.'_ He forged ahead. "Well, if you're not going to _let _us leave, we'll just have to find our _own _way out. Mind you, I don't _want _to use this," he said, motioning with the phase pistol, "but if you attack us again or try to prevent us from leaving, I _will_."

The G'l Benai laughed, a blood-soaked grin on his face. "Your toy guns are most terrifying," he mocked.

"It's not set on stun anymore," Malcolm warned, watching with satisfaction as the grin vanished. "Mr. Saunders, kindly get those doors open." As the crewman worked to pry the off-kilter launch bay doors open the G'l Benai raised his hands to the sides of his head, expertly bracing the helmet despite the dagger still in hand. Reed's stomach lurched with revulsion as he realized that the slurping sound suddenly filling his ears was the sound of their attacker licking the thick coating of blood from the helmet's interior. A very long half-minute passed before the sound stopped, the angry feline features once again fully visible. The G'l Benai lowered his arms with agonizing slowness, black unblinking eyes never wavering as they bored into the lieutenant.

The warrior's right arm became a blur at almost the same instant that Malcolm dropped the pistol and screamed in pain, left hand reflexively clutching his right arm as he stumbled backward. Looking down in disbelief, his eyes confirmed what his gloved fingers had already told him: the G'l Benai's dagger was embedded deep into his upper arm, firmly welded into place by emergency sealant. A victorious roar from the knife's owner snapped Malcolm's attention back to his attacker, who was striding rapidly toward him with deadly purpose.

Gritting his teeth against the pain Reed crouched down to retrieve the pistol but his legs buckled. He pitched sideways, sending his injured arm slamming into the bulkhead. Vision blurring, he could just barely make out the image of Saunders striding past him to meet the G'l Benai, beam at the ready. The warrior briefly slowed his pace to size up his new opponent then resumed his charge, still intent upon his original target.

With a step forward Saunders drew back then with the next step swung the beam, bellowing at the top of his lungs. "Stay the bloody blue hell _away _from him!" He changed the angle of his swing at the last second; the G'l Benai's attempt to block the blow to his head was made useless as the beam plowed into his midriff. A deafening scream of agony filled the air as the soldier pitched backward, fresh sprays of blood appearing inside his faceplate as he coughed and retched uncontrollably. Saunders planted himself between his CO and their attacker, lined up to bat "southpaw" if the alien made another advance.

Though he didn't follow sports the phrase "switch hitter" flitted unbidden through Malcolm's mind as he got his left hand around the pistol and fought to stand. Struggling to steady himself, leaning heavily against the wall as the corridor spun around him, he made a mental note to not let Trip talk him into watching any more baseball games.

It was rapidly getting difficult to breath, he noticed. And not just for him. Saunders was breathing quite heavily, and the G'l Benai...well, Saunders had obviously done a good bit of damage with that last hit because the bastard was still doubled over, hacking and gasping for air. It seemed forever before the wet choking sounds coming from the goliath subsided. Painfully the alien straightened, still fighting to breath, shoulders heaving with the effort. Malcolm hadn't thought it possible for more hate to show on the man's face but by God, now it positively radiated from him. Not good. Not good at all.

"Watch yourself, Saunders," Reed warned. David nodded slowly, eyes never leaving his opponent. A low growl started deep within the beast, building to a deafening level as it shifted to a roaring battle cry. The leviathan charged, all attention now on the crewman who had denied him his prize. David again connected with the massive head and the G'l Benai again staggered backward but stayed upright. Another roar, another charge, another swing from Saunders' makeshift bat, and the two forms moved further down the corridor, away from Reed and toward the blast door. The phase pistol in Malcolm's hand was all but useless since a clear shot was impossible. As he opened his mouth to shout at Saunders to get the hell down the warrior charged the man again, and again the beam connected with the side of the helmet. The G'l Benai's faceplate flew open.

As one, all three men gasped. David and the warrior stepped back from each other at the same time, the alien's mouth wide with shock. That expression gave way to something indefinable as the gore-drenched face turned upward. It was as if he were gazing gratefully into the face of God, Malcolm thought. When the warrior lowered his head, eyes leveled at David, a crazed, feral smile spread across the hairy face. In a single leap he was on the crewman, the force of his impact sending the beam clattering to the floor as he seized the rappelling harness and pinned David to the wall. A muffled snarl of satisfaction escaped from the G'l Benai as his long teeth found their way through the fabric connecting Saunders' helmet to his EV suit, the crewman's screams cut horribly short by the teeth finding their way into the man's throat.

There had been no time for Malcolm to respond to the attack on Saunders but he reacted now, bellowing with rage as he opened fire. Staggering forward he fired again but the beast at first refused to relinquish its hold on its quarry. With painful slowness the enormous head finally lifted away from the crewman's still form, fresh blood staining his teeth as he smiled horribly at Reed. One hand reached up to almost casually snap the faceplate closed, the smile never leaving his face as his tongue slid over those terrible teeth, Saunders' blood mingling with his own as he lapped the gore from his lips. David's limp form slid to the floor as the alien finally loosed his grip.

The black eyes of the warrior shifted from Malcolm to the camera in the ceiling and the creature roared gleefully at it, voice hoarse as he shouted. "These two, at least, were worthy opponents, animals though they may be. But _you_! What manner of captain are you that you send your men to die in your stead? Coward! You are nothing but a _ghallas_, hiding safely in your burrow. I only regret that I cannot reach into that burrow of yours, so that I might drag you out by your ears and slay you properly!" He turned his attention back to the lieutenant. "You were warned! I told you that attempting to claim my captain's ship would be a costly undertaking. And the price is not yet fully paid." Seizing the beam from the floor next to Saunders' prone body he strode toward Reed. Two more shots failed to do more than seemingly annoy the hell out of the G'l Benai, though the last _did_ give Malcolm the satisfaction of sending a shower of sparks from the alien EV suit.

Then the phase pistol was gone, knocked painfully away with an almost-playful swing of the beam. Reed was certain the G'l Benai was debating where exactly to put that beam, and the exhausted man knew that none of the options sprinting through that alien mind were going to be pleasant for him. And he knew there wasn't a damned thing he was going to be able to do to prevent it.

One nudge with its mighty hand sent Reed backward into the wall. As he watched the G'l Benai raise the beam overhead all fear and pain drained from him, leaving a most peculiar mix of resignation and anger. Though he'd long ago accepted the possibility and likelihood of dying in the line of duty he would never have believed it possible that he would meet his end at the hands of an overgrown, bipedal, homicidal alley cat. He steeled himself for the coming blow, determined to go to his death unflinching, with eyes open and with no pleading coming from his lips. It was far too late to beg for mercy on Saunders' behalf, and he silently vowed that he would not beg for his own life. He stared unblinking into the soulless eyes, setting his jaw, almost eager for the deathblow. Still the beam hung there.

Malcolm found himself growing impatient. "Come on," he finally snapped, "what're you waiting for? Let's have done with it!"

The beam wavered.

Now the lieutenant was thoroughly pissed off. "I _said_ c'mon! I haven't got all bloody day! If you're expecting me to grovel and beg for my life you should know that you'll have none of that from me, understand?"

The black eyes glittered down at him, a thousand thoughts seeming to dance behind them before the beam flew through the air, clattering loudly first against the bulkhead then the floor, scraping and skittering down the corridor until it crashed into the blast door. The G'l Benai nodded slowly. "Yesss," he muttered, replying to voices unheard by his prey. "Much better. Much more...appropriate." The horrible smile returned as the giant leaned close, his words slow and deliberate. "You said that you wanted to see what we were _hiding_, did you not? Perhaps you have earned the right to see. So I will _show_ you." He chuckled humorlessly before roughly seizing the lieutenant by the harness and yanked him close.

The sudden, abrupt movement sent fresh waves of pain and nausea coursing through Reed. His vision blurred and his knees started to give way but somehow he stayed upright, struggling weakly against the iron grip.

"One last task before I go to The Ancestors," the G'l Benai cooed, "and _you _shall assist me. It is..._fitting_...that you should do this."

"I'll not help you with _anything_!" Malcolm shouted rebelliously, not caring that he could offer only token resistance as he was hauled to the sealed door across the corridor from the launch bay. He realized the folly of his brief defiance when the G'l Benai spun him about and placed a huge, well-aimed knee deep into his midsection. The alien then simply let go, letting him drop to his knees coughing and gasping for breath. The blow had, Reed was sure, broken more ribs, and from the feel of things his sternum as well. Morbidly curious to know what his executioner was doing Malcolm struggled to lift his head, which had suddenly become inordinately heavy. He tried with minimal success to ignore the blood now gracing the inside of his own faceplate.

The warrior raised one foot and placed it with great care about two feet up the wall alongside the door. Toes braced against the wall and right arm raised to the ceiling he hoisted himself upward, his palm pressing against a small panel in the ceiling similar to the one near the blast door. With a faint click the panel yielded and a PADD-sized section of wall near the ceiling slid downward to expose a keypad.

_'Should have noticed that one,'_ Reed scolded himself: when they'd found the panel near the blast door he should have checked for others. _'Please let them be watching on Enterprise. They won't be able to save either of us, but at least they'll be able to recover our bodies.' _Long alien fingers gracefully caressed the symbols until the door hissed open. At almost the same instant Malcolm's helmet was filled with static and fragments of frantic words delivered with a familiar drawl.

"Mal...hang...we're com...jus...nother min...gonna be...ight...don't gi...hear me? Don...dare quit on m...loo-ten…"

Malcolm's eyes closed momentarily as wistful, smile played across his bloodied lips. "Too late, Trip," he whispered. "I'm sorry...so sorry." He hardly felt himself being again lifted by the rappelling harness, but his eyes snapped open in surprise and fresh agony as he was bashed into the doorjamb. His eyes widened as he looked into the room.

"Look well, human. You wanted to see what was here, did you not?"

'_Oh shit shit shit can't be can't be have to WARN THEM YOU BLOODY IDIOT WARN THEM!' _Somehow he found his voice and began screaming as the G'l Benai threw him into the darkened room. "CAPTAIN YOU HAVE TO POLE—" The door swished shut, cutting off all sound from within the room.


	6. Chapter 6

_Author's Note: Noticed a few spots in the previous chapters where glitches/typos got through and one or two places that needed minor rephrasing, so went back and repaired/reposted those...hope the latest installment was worth the wait..._

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He struggled with new energy against the arm wrapped around his throat and the iron grip crushing his right wrist, ignoring the pain of his injuries and the taste of blood in his mouth. All that existed right now**—**aside from the gloating behemoth pinning him to the console, forcing his hand toward the controls—was the image he'd seen when the door of the alien Armory had first opened: _Enterprise_ on a large viewscreen, with four targeting markers winking mockingly at him. Bridge. Forward Armory. Port nacelle support pylon. Starboard nacelle.

All of the markers were dead-center.

He shoved backward with a growl and gained a small victory as the wall of EV-suited flesh behind him stumbled for an instant, both men coming close to landing on the floor of the massive weapons room. Malcolm took advantage of the moment and drove the point of his left elbow into the G'l Benai's midsection, feeling a primal satisfaction at the roar of pain his action elicited from the beast. But he was still trapped in the murderous grip of the warrior and found his insolence paid back by a shove into the console that painfully jostled his broken ribs and sternum. He fought to stifle the shout trying to force its way past his lips, only half succeeding.

Reed found himself again tightly sandwiched between the console and the G'l Benai, his hand once more forced into position over the controls. The soft, madness-filled voice filled his helmet. "You're going to _show _me, Human," his adversary purred seductively. "I want to know if you are as talented at killing your _own _people as you are at killing _mine_. It is a simple thing. You will do this, and then I will give you the gift of a quick death."

"No!" Malcolm growled, still fighting to pull his hand away from the controls; bones began to yield noisily in the warrior's devastating grip. Feeling his fingers graze the launch controls he strained desperately to pull his hand away. Though the G'l Benai's breathing was becoming more labored by the minute the brute's strength never seemed to ebb as he held his quarry. Malcolm could swear he could feel the monster's hot vulgar breath on his neck as the warrior mocked him.

"Poor little Human," the behemoth panted gleefully, laughter bubbling up in his throat. "He is _soo_ tired. Perhaps we should let him rest. What say you, my battle-brother?" he asked as he swung his prey away from the controls and hauled him to the next console. Malcolm was brought face-to-face with the only other G'l Benai in the room; he cringed at the sight of the EV-suited corpse sprawled awkwardly on its back across the controls, a huge sheathed sword laid across its chest, the dark face with golden eyes staring lifelessly from behind a scorched, cracked faceplate.

"He has never been overly talkative," the alien chuckled, stifling a fluid-filled cough before growing dangerously somber. "He died in battle, as a warrior should. I watched him die." The pressure on Malcolm's throat increased painfully as he was dragged back to the torpedo launch controls. "I watched them _all _die," he hissed at Reed, all humor gone. "So now it is _your_ turn to watch _your_ people die." With savage force he slammed the lieutenant's hand into the console, launching the torpedoes.

Though he wanted to avert his eyes Malcolm found he could not tear his gaze from the screen, squeezing his eyes shut too late to block the image of the first torpedo impacting against the starboard nacelle and exploding. Bile rose in his throat at the celebratory squeezes and shakes the G'l Benai bestowed upon him.

"Well _done_, Human! Your captain's ship burns well!" the warrior laughed heartily, giving him one last gleeful shake before unceremoniously tossing him aside. Malcolm landed on his knees and forearms, body and soul too numb to feel the impact. He choked back nausea and tears as he listened to the reveling delight, the alien laughter soon degrading into wet choking coughs. Then there was silence.

He felt rather than saw the mountainous presence of the warrior towering over him but Malcolm refused to use the last of his strength to look up at him.

"I promised you…a quick death," the winded G'l Benai rumbled down at him, struggling for breath.

"Go to hell," Malcolm retorted softly, content to stare at the floor and draw light-headed satisfaction from the sound of the G'l Benai's labored breathing. He felt the large hands pulling on his helmet, hauling him upright, and closed his eyes. He'd gotten Saunders killed, plus God only knew how many on _Enterprise_. As far as he was concerned this was a fitting, well-deserved punishment for those crimes. Better not to resist, and certainly better that he not watch as the beast tear off his helmet or slice his hoses, or whatever the hell the monster planned to do.

He was on his knees now, eyes still closed as he drew in short, shallow breaths, his head tipped so far back by the alien that, had he possessed enough energy to open his eyes, he'd have been staring up into the rafters of the huge room. The frivolous thought occurred to him that the size of the G'l Benai Armoury made his _own_ cherished Armoury look like little more than a walk-in closet. _'Maybe when I get back the Captain would let me expand it a little,'_ he thought, momentarily giddy from shock. Then he remembered that the Captain had in all likelihood been on the Bridge when those torpedoes had been launched. _'Besides, you bloody twit, you're not __getting__ back, remember? No happy ending this time.'_

Fingers probed almost gently through the material between his helmet and EV suit, finding his throat and pressing gently, holding their position. A moment later Reed felt something small, hard, and rounded pressing into his throat where the fingers had probed, just beneath his left ear. There was a familiar hiss and a cold sensation at the injection site, the object was withdrawn, and about two heartbeats later his blood had turned to white-hot acid. Eyes wide, he stared at the G'l Benai. "What…did…you…_do_ to me?" he screeched at the beast, the new agony wiping away all others.

The expression on the feline face was almost benign. "It will be a quick death, as I promised," the G'l Benai explained, displaying the hypospray before returning it to the small box on the belt of his EV suit. He retrieved his sword from his fallen comrade. "Not painless…but quick. It was either that or this," he added, briefly holding the sheathed khopesh aloft before strapping it to his waist. Given a choice, Malcolm knew beyond all doubt that he would have preferred the sword even with its vicious sickle-like curve at the end.

Body stiffening, arms stretching out to his sides and behind him, Reed's head snapped back as his eyes rolled up into his head. His back arched at such an angle that he was sure his spine would break; he remained frozen in that position for three of the longest, most painful seconds of his life. Then the convulsions began, feeling as though massive electrical currents were tearing through his body. He was deprived of the ability to scream as the violent spasms ripped the air from his lungs, allowing only strangled grunts and gasps to escape from him. Somewhere through the haze he could hear muffled pounding and the distant voice of Commander Tucker sounding as though the man were trying to shout through several dozen pillows.

He was fairly sure that he'd soiled himself.

At last his body went slack and he fell onto his back, breathless. His vision went grey for several seconds and when it cleared he knew that something was very much amiss. The room had been sparsely illuminated before but was now bathed in light almost blinding in its intensity, and where there had once been the silence of a tomb there was now a near-deafening, distorted cacophony. His skin felt as if millions of microscopic insects had taken up residence just beneath the surface. Every muscle of his body tingled as though electrified, his chest feeling as though a flock of birds was trapped deep within fluttering frantically to escape. Strangest, though, was the pain: his head was hammering merrily away and his muscles ached from the seizure, but his injuries no longer seemed the least bit painful. He experimented by reaching over and tapping timidly at the dagger in his arm; he could feel the tug of it against the muscles but there was no discomfort. Staring at his broken hand he cautiously wiggled his fingers and felt a slight resistance within but no real pain. He almost giggled at the peculiarity of it until he realized that the G'l Benai was staring down at him.

"I…apologize," the warrior rumbled, genuine regret in his voice. "I thought it would kill you far more quickly than this. You were not supposed to linger."

Malcolm heard the pounding again, still muffled but discernible, along with the distinctive vocal cadence but undecipherable words of Commander Tucker. He found himself quite satisfied at the agitation this caused the alien, even more so when he heard with absolute clarity Trip's pronouncement that they were "almost there, Malcolm!" As the growling G'l Benai drew his sword and positioned himself to meet Malcolm's liberators Reed struggled to regain his feet. His eyes fell again on the viewscreen showing Enterprise hanging crippled in space and something within him shattered.

The fruitless rescue mission, the bodies in the turbolift shaft, the G'l Benai's stubborn refusal to listen and determination to kill them, Saunders' body sprawled in the corridor, the alien toying with him and using him to attack _Enterprise_—it was all too much. A surge of primal rage and hatred tore through him as he rose, all discomfort gone and one thought banishing all others: _Kill_.

With a beastial scream of fury he launched himself at the goliath, feeling nothing but bloodlust as he attacked the warrior with new-found strength. The G'l Benai had clearly not expected the assault and stumbled backward, hissing his obvious displeasure at Reed's discourteous refusal to die. As the soldier fell to the floor the sword sailed from his hands, clattering to the floor several feet away. Malcolm stayed on top of him, feral hands prying maniacally at the alien's faceplate: it had come open before and if _he_ had anything to say about it, it would bloody well open again. He wanted to reach inside and pound the smug alien grin off the bastard's face with his bare hands, wanted to watch the life drain from the massive body as the air ran out. He imagined seeing the face and skull caved in, with fur, blood, and brains scattered within the helmet and all about the deck, and felt unbridled joy at the mental image. Malcolm didn't even feel the warrior pushing him away until he'd already been sent airborne, and he barely felt his impact with the floor.

Eager to go at the beast again he roared as he quickly hauled himself to his feet but this time the room spun violently around him, waves of nausea and vertigo slamming into him. He stumbled to the wall in search of a handhold without noticing how still the fallen G'l Benai remained. When the door slid open an energizing flood of adrenaline washed all dizziness and nausea away: certain that more of the leviathans had arrived to finish him off he staggered away from the door and braced for an attack, filled with a sudden feeling of invincibility. If they wanted a fight he'd happily give them one the likes of which they'd never seen. _Kill them all...I'll kill them all._ As several dark forms entered the room and approached him Malcolm rushed to retrieve the sword. Feeling hands on him he fought wildly, striking out blindly, gleefully raining blows on the people trying to restrain him until a familiar voice forced its way through his enraged howls and filtered into his brain.

"Malcolm! It's me—Trip! Take it easy! Jesus Malcolm, _STOP_! It's _ME_!"

Freezing in mid-swing Reed stared disbelieving first into his friend's face then at the rest of his shocked rescuers. He began trembling, legs going weak beneath him. "Trip? Oh God..._Trip_," he gasped, first stumbling away from his friend then into Tucker's open arms, clinging desperately to the commander without breaking eye contact. "She's been hit. _Enterprise_ is hit," he managed to say before dropping to his knees and throwing up.

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

"Maybe I should get back down there, see if there's anything I can do to help," Trip said anxiously as he paced across the Ready Room.

"Phlox said he'd keep us posted. He's got his hands full right now and the last thing he needs is to be stumbling over my Chief Engineer. The best way to help is to concentrate on repairs and wait for the doctor to call us."

Tucker sighed in resignation. "I guess. It's just that…you didn't _see_ him. I mean, I know you saw _some _of it through that surveillance camera once we got him into the corridor but…I looked right into his eyes, Jon. They were black as coal, and wild. It was like he wasn't even in there. When we first got to him he started hammerin' on everybody within reach, until he finally recognized me and settled down. But when T'Pol told us that the G'l Benai was still breathing, Malcolm went totally berserk. He grabbed that sword off the floor," he said, pointing to the huge sword now lying across Archer's desk, "and went after the guy. It didn't matter that the fella was laid out cold and it _didn't _matter that T'Pol was in the way. I swear, Jon, if we hadn't grabbed him he'd have sliced right through her to get to that guy. I'm just glad we had a security team with us, 'cuz I _know_ I wouldn't have been able to stop him on my own. I know Malcolm's stronger than he looks, but this was different…it was _scary_, Jon. Have you tried lifting that thing?" he asked, pointing again at the alien weapon. When Jon nodded Trip asked, "Heavy, ain't it?"

Archer nodded again. "It's pretty hefty, yeah."

"Have you tried swingin' it around?" Jon shook his head and Trip continued. "Well, Captain, your Armory Officer was flailin' away with it like it was made of balsa wood, howlin' like a banshee the whole time. Personally, I consider it a bona fide miracle that he didn't kill any of us with it. I hate to say it, Jon, but…I'm not a hundred percent sure he woulda stopped with the G'l Benai. I don't think he'd have been _able_ to stop." Before Jon could comment the door chime rang.

"Come in."

T'Pol entered. "Captain, Dr. Phlox asked me to update you on his patients. The G'l Benai is stabilized but will require surgery soon. Crewman Saunders is presently in surgery, and although his injuries are severe the doctor is hopeful that he will survive. There is, however, a serious problem with Lieutenant Reed. The lieutenant was highly combative when taken to Sickbay and the doctor attempted to sedate him, unaware that a foreign substance had been introduced into Mr. Reed's system. The lieutenant had a near-lethal interaction, but they were able to revive him. I have been assisting Dr. Phlox in isolating and neutralizing the substance."

_'But they were able to revive him.'_ She had just basically told them that Malcolm had, if only briefly, _died_, and she'd done it so casually, almost sounding nonchalant as she delivered the news. A small part of Archer envied T'Pol's ability to be so detached and clinical when discussing the near-death of a crewmate, but a far larger part had to fight the urge to shake or slap some sort of emotional response from her. He bit back the first question that sprang to his mind: would she have delivered news of a _Vulcan's_ death with the same cool indifference? Hell, he already knew the answer to that one. Instead he asked, "Any idea how this 'substance' got into Malcolm?"

"Mr. Reed has become largely incoherent since we found him. However, after the doctor revived him he _was_ able to tell us that shortly before we reached them the G'l Benai injected him with something."

"I don't suppose our _guest _would be willing to help undo what he's done to Malcolm?" Archer asked bitterly.

T'Pol shook her head. "He is still unconscious, but it _is_ doubtful that he would help someone he views as an enemy."

"What I don't get is, why'd he do it?" Trip asked. "I mean, he'd already beaten Malcolm almost to death—why poison him, too?"

"Unknown," T'Pol replied, "but the doctor is certain that the toxin is what is causing Mr. Reed's violent behavior. With your permission I'll return to Sickbay to continue working on the blood samples Phlox has taken."

The captain nodded grimly. "Thanks. Keep me posted. Trip, continue with repairs and get me an estimate as to how long it'll be before we can get underway." As the officers left the captain called T'Pol back. "Subcommander…a moment please?" Trip left as T'Pol stepped back into the office.

"Trip told me some of what happened over there, and I just wanted to hear your take on it. How…out of control…was Malcolm?"

The Vulcan's eyebrows arched as she contemplated her response. "I believe," she finally said, "that 'out of control' is an understatement, Captain. Mr. Reed is a highly disciplined individual and, although he _is _prone to bursts of temper—as is typical of your species—he _usually _possesses the ability to restrain himself. That was not the case when we found him. Despite the severity of his injuries he was highly combative when we first entered the G'l Benai weapons room, attacking everyone who approached him. Once he recognized us he calmed down and told us about the attack on _Enterprise_; however, when he found out that the G'l Benai was still alive he lost all capacity for rational thought and endeavored quite forcefully to kill the man, even to the point of endangering the rest of us. That is _not_ behavior that is anywhere near normal for the lieutenant." Jon shook his head in disbelief and T'Pol continued.

"The security team had a great deal of difficulty subduing him. It is possible that he either lost the ability to recognize us, viewing us all as adversaries, or was unable to realize that his actions were potentially harmful to us. I realize that it is difficult to picture Mr. Reed in such a mental state given his usual self-control, but the substance injected into him is most certainly causing this behavior. His actions should not be held against him."

Archer looked as though he'd been slapped. "It wasn't my intention to _blame_ him," he said quietly. "I'm just trying to understand what the hell _happened _to him." He stared at the sword a long moment before turning back to his Science Officer. "Give Phlox whatever help he needs. Keep me posted." Once she was out the door his eyes went back to the enormous blade, Trip's words replaying in his mind:

"_Well, Captain, your Armory Officer was flailin' away with it like it was made of balsa wood, howlin' like a banshee…"_

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

"Sickbay to Captain Archer." The call cut through the tense air of the bridge, unexpectedly breaking the silence.

Archer thumbed the comm button. "Go ahead, Phlox."

"Crewman Saunders is out of surgery, Captain, and his vital signs are stable for now. I'll be taking the G'l Benai to surgery soon. And," he added somberly, "Lt. Reed's condition is…slightly improved." Phlox's statement was accompanied by angry primal screams filling the comm.

"DON'T…_TOUCH _MEEEE!" Malcolm screeched, his strained, hoarse voice filling the bridge. Everyone froze, several people flinching at the volume and shrillness of the lieutenant's voice. The metallic clatter of something in Sickbay hitting the floor punctuated Reed's frantic demand, making the bridge crew and repair teams jump. More screams, shouts, and the sounds of an all-out brawl followed.

"I have to go, Captain," the doctor blurted before breaking the connection.

Jon rose from his seat and headed for the turbo lift at a near-run. "Hoshi, contact Commander Tucker and have him meet me in Sickbay. Travis, you have the bridge."

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

The screams had subsided by the time Jon and Trip reached Sickbay; the men lingered just inside the door, taking in the scene in front of them. The heads of all three biobeds were elevated slightly, allowing a clear view of the occupants' faces. In the first bed, being watched by a security guard, lay the unconscious G'l Benai, both forearms and hands wrapped in bandages and his breathing labored but steady. Whatever clothing he may have been wearing had been removed along with the alien's EV suit, leaving his fur-covered torso exposed save for a blanket draped to protect the man's modesty. Though much of the blood had been washed from his face and head, pink stains marred most of his white fur. A small earpiece protruded slightly from his left ear; a slender metallic-looking tube snaked out from it, wending around and behind the ear and down along the length of his head, ending in a small rectangular box near his mouth. The mammoth alien's feet rested on an improvised extension to the foot of the bed: an instrument table with a pillow on top of it had been put there to accommodate the G'l Benai's long legs.

On the third bed over Saunders was in a similar state, though additional medical equipment near the bed, IV bags feeding blood and medication into his arms, a breathing tube protruding from his mouth, and bandages enveloping his throat and left cheek hinted at his more precarious condition.

Drenched with sweat, hair plastered to his forehead, a shirtless Malcolm occupied the bed between them, breathing heavily as he fidgeted and twitched uncontrollably. His right hand and wrist were in a cast, his upper arm and battered midsection bandaged. A harried-looking orderly sporting a black eye tried to pull a blanket over the lieutenant's bruised torso only to jump away when Malcolm sat up and took a swing at him, snarling hoarsely and glaring with jet black eyes.

"I don't NEED that I'm NOT cold DON'T…TOUCHME!" Fighting to steady his breathing, he squeezed his eyes shut to block out the anxiousexpression on the orderly's face—and the black eye he knew he'd given to the man earlier. Left hand involuntarily clenching and unclenching and the fingers of his right hand twitching, he leaned back in the bed and opened his eyes. "I'm sorry," he finally managed to say, struggling to maintain a normal volume but unable to keep his gravelly voice from shaking. "Please just…I don't _need _a blanket, I just need this to stop. Why won't it stop, why can't he make it _stop_?"

"Thank you for staying with him, Ensign Pierce," Phlox told the orderly as he approached the bed. "Why don't you take a little break now, hmm? And don't forget to put a cold compress on that eye. As I've already explained to you, Lieutenant," Phlox said patiently once Pierce had gone, "I don't know yet what our friend here put into your system, but all tests so far indicate that anything I try to use to counteract it or alleviate the symptoms will only _worsen _your condition. T'Pol is running more tests right now but it's going to take some time. Please, try to hold on a little longer."

"What the bloody HELL do you THINK I'M _TRYING _TO DO!" Reed snapped, then grimaced. Suddenly cold he laid back with a shiver and pulled the bedclothes slowly, painfully over himself. "Sorry, Doctor, I just can't…sorry, so sorry…"

Phlox successfully resisted the urge to pat him on the shoulder, opting instead to carefully help straighten the blanket. "It's quite all right, Lieutenant. The substance is hyper-stimulating your nervous system and wreaking havoc with your physiology as well as causing an intense mental strain. But it is _vital_ for you to remain as calm and still as possible—we've stopped the bleeding but if you do too much thrashing about you'll reopen your wounds or further aggravate your internal injuries. I really don't want to have to resort to the restraints again—I know they caused you immense discomfort—so you have to _promise_ that you'll remain in bed."

Malcolm nodded, shivering as he clutched the edge of the blanket. "I know…I understand, really I do, but…" he replied, voice shaking and cracking, "but it feels like…like I've got fire ants crawling around under my skin, biting and stinging. There must be _something_ you can give me, _anything_, put me under, DO _SOMETHING_!" he pleaded.

The doctor shook his head sadly. "We already tried to 'put you under,' and we almost lost you—"

"SO HIT ME OVER THE HEAD WITH A _BRICK _YOU BLOODY _QUACK_, DO _SOMETHING_ TO MAKE IT _STOP_!" Phlox stood serenely by the bed, waiting as his patient panted for breath. Closing his eyes Malcolm finally spoke again, his hoarse voice suddenly very tiny and contrite. "Oh God Phlox, I'm sorry. I didn't mean it, you _know_ I didn't mean it. I'm so sorry."

The doctor smiled benignly as he reassured the lieutenant. "Yes Malcolm, I know. Don't concern yourself about it any further. Frankly, it's encouraging to hear you regaining some of your usual eloquence." A short, pained chuckle slipped out of Malcolm as Phlox continued. "I have to give the captain an update then see if T'Pol has made any progress with the latest samples I gave her. I'll be back as soon as possible." Dimming the lights over Malcolm's bed, he walked across Sickbay and motioned to Archer and Tucker.

They approached and stood next to him, anxiously waiting for the doctor to speak, but Phlox guided them to the far side of Sickbay before speaking in a hushed voice. "The G'l Benai is doing surprisingly well considering the amount of trauma he suffered**—**skull fracture, concussion, multiple scalp lacerations, blood loss, four broken ribs, a punctured lung, multiple fractures throughout the length of his tail, and second- and third-degree burns to his hands and forearms. He's stable now but I'll need to take him to surgery soon to repair the worst of the damage. You should be able to speak with him within the next few hours. I believe the device he's wearing on his head is a combination communicator/translator. I left it on him in hopes that it would help us better communicate with him when he wakes.

"Crewman Saunders is still in critical condition, but his vital signs are stable at present. The impact of the storage container coupled with his impact with the wall caused a concussion, broken nose, three cracked ribs, a bruised kidney, several cracked vertebrae, and deep muscle contusions to both legs. The injuries to his throat are by no means minor, but all in all he is a _very_ lucky young man. Because of the EV suit, the G'l Benai wasn't able to get a full grip on the crewman's throat when he bit him. Also, the emergency sealant not only closed the gaps in the suit but a good bit of it leaked inside the suit as well, creating a sort of pressure bandage against the wounds. There was still substantial damage and blood loss but I have seen medical records detailing the sort of damage the G'l Benai can do with their teeth, and it could have been _far_ worse. Barring any complications and given enough time, I am hopeful that David will make a satisfactory recovery.

"Lt. Reed's condition," he continued solemnly, "is very precarious. He has two knife wounds to the torso and one to his right upper arm, seven broken ribs, a cracked sternum, several bruised internal organs including his heart, a concussion, and numerous fractures of varying severity to the bones in his right hand and wrist. And, as T'Pol has already informed you, he has had some sort of drug introduced into his system. It's causing—" he was interrupted by another spate of growling howls of frustration from Malcolm.

Once the yells subsided, Phlox continued. "It's causing a number of problems. His heart rate and respiration are far above normal and his blood pressure is dangerously high. The drug is causing his body to produce massive amounts of testosterone and adrenaline and is causing near-constant muscle tremors and twitching. It's also having an unusual effect on his senses—although they seem to have been heightened to the point of causing extreme discomfort, he's experiencing very little pain from his injuries. His reasoning abilities and self-control have also been adversely affected, hence the outbursts, shouting, and…brawling.

"So far we've been unable to find a way to safely counteract _any _of the effects, and if the drug isn't neutralized soon I'm not sure what kind of permanent damage he may suffer. I can't even perform the surgical procedures he requires to properly mend his injuries until the substance is either neutralized or works its way out of his system. Not to mention the risk that he may further injure himself during an outburst or perhaps injure someone else."

"I thought you said his condition had _improved_," Archer said.

The doctor nodded. "I said it had _slightly _improved, and it has. Until a short time ago he was incapable of anything even _resembling_ coherent speech. At least now he's able to scream in more or less complete sentences. I've ordered the restraints removed for the time being because they were causing him great agitation and discomfort, and he is at least a _little_ calmer now that they're gone. His eyes are still a bit…unsettling, but I'm hopeful that _that _effect of the drug will pass soon. Try to not mention it to him—he's rather self-conscious about it.

"You can visit with him now if you wish but speak softly and try to refrain from physical contact. Also, mention of our large guest would be best kept to a minimum. I'll be taking our friend there to surgery after I check in with T'Pol. You shouldn't be too surprised by anything the lieutenant says or does, but for goodness sake _keep him in bed_. I had to treat his injuries without giving him pain medication and don't relish the thought of having to put him through that again, but if he reopens his wounds I fear that's precisely what I'll have to do. If all else fails, try reminding him that I _will_ use the restraints again if need be." With that the doctor bustled away.

Standing next to Malcolm, Jon and Trip stared down at his tightly-closed eyes. Reed was trembling uncontrollably, his breathing rapid, his lips moving silently until another frustrated, wordless screech burst forth. His hands repeatedly clenched and unclenched, sporadically pounding on the bed beside him. The tremors stopped for a few seconds then resumed.

"Hey Mal," Trip said, his voice velvet.

Despite the softness of the engineer's voice Reed flinched in apparent pain at the sound. He spoke without opening his eyes, his voice a shaking, gravelly, jagged whisper. "Hello, Trip. Is Saunders...is he really still alive?" He'd scarcely dared hope it was true when he first heard of the man's survival.

The engineer nodded. "Yeah...Doc says he's pretty lucky—he's not in great shape, but Phlox thinks he'll be okay. Guess between his Irish granny and British grandpa he inherited enough luck and stubbornness to keep him going."

"Determination," Reed corrected hoarsely. "We prefer to think of it as determination, not stubbornness." There was a long pause. "And our furry friend?" he asked with no attempt to hide the contempt in his voice.

"He's still out cold…no need at worry about him, Doc's got a guard on him." Sparing a glance at Jon, Trip spoke again. "Can we do anything for ya, Malcolm?"

Reed's head shook almost imperceptibly. His breathing slowed slightly as he finally looked at his friend, the familiar blue-grey of his eyes eerily displaced by blackness. "Not unless you can make it stop." His shaky voice was frighteningly calm, but his breathing sped up again and they could see another yell building up. Malcolm was obviously fighting to contain it but soon failed. "Make it stop, _make it stop, _MAKE IT STOP!" Despite the cast on his right hand his fists pounded out a rapid staccato on the bed.

Archer, standing on Malcolm's right, risked lightly laying a hand on the lieutenant's shoulder. "Lieutenant," he whispered.

Reed's eyes snapped open at the sound of his captain's voice, meeting his superior's concerned gaze with a look of confused awkwardness. "Sorry, sir," he finally gasped, embarrassed by his outburst.

Taking his hand from the man's shoulder Jon shook his head, smiling. "Don't worry about it. I think you've earned the right to do a little yelling, don't you?"

"Not very professional of me, I'm afraid. I just…I can't seem to…" Pausing, Malcolm shut his eyes for a moment as he fought the torrent of emotion. "I'm _trying _to control it, sir, I'm just…not doing a very good _job _of it. It's so damned _frustrating_. I _should_ be able to…" Staring at the ceiling he let the sentence trail off, unfinished.

The captain shook his head again. "You're doing fine, Malcolm. Just hang on, okay? I'm sure Phlox and T'Pol will get this figured out soon, and we'll do everything we can to help you until then."

"How bad is it?" Malcolm rasped. "How much damage to the ship?"

"Nothin' we can't fix," Trip assured him. "We'll be back to a hundred percent in no time, and so will you an' Saunders."

"Weapons…do we have weapons? If more of those furry bastards show up—"

Trip tried to stifle his exasperation. "Your people are workin' on it, Loo-tenant. Try to quit worryin' so much about the ship and concentrate on getting better, okay?"

"What about casualties? How many...how many people did I hurt? Did I...was anyone killed?"

Brow furrowed with confusion Archer tried to comfort his officer. "Aside from some cuts and scrapes, bumps and bruises, everyone's okay. Phlox and his team already have everybody else patched up and out the door." He studied the lieutenant before pointing out what was, to him, obvious. "It wasn't your _fault_, Malcolm. _You_ didn't hurt _any_ of us."

Malcolm shook his head at the captain's words, sorrow and guilt filling his unnaturally black eyes. "He dragged me to the console, and…he made me…couldn't get away from him, couldn't get my hand away from the…" His voice faded, the trembling of his body increasing. Staring at the cast he at last forced himself to finish the thought, voice quivering. "It was _my _hand on the controls, sir. He made me fire the torpedoes. Said he wanted to know if I was as talented at killing my own people as I was at killing his. I can still see my hand on the console…the first impact…the explosion," he whispered, letting his damaged hand drop onto the bed and closing his eyes against the memory.

"It may have been your _hand_, Malcolm," the captain said gently, "but it wasn't _you_. Besides—"

"I couldn't get my hand away from the controls," Reed continued as if Archer hadn't spoken, eyes still clamped shut. "I tried…wasn't strong enough, didn't…fight hard enough. Should've…fought harder." Another outburst was rapidly building in him despite his struggles to contain it. "I wasn't _strong _enough," he hissed through clenched teeth.

"Mal," Trip tried to comfort him, "The sonuvabitch is over two feet taller than you an' at least a hundred pounds heavier, he'd just got through beatin' the crap outta you, and he'd stuck a _knife_ in you…_three times_. I'd say he had a _little _bit of an unfair advantage, wouldn't you?" Malcolm's face contorted horribly as another unstoppable, incoherent, full-volume growling shriek escaped from him.

Archer waited for the dreadful sound to end. "Lieutenant," he said in a firm but gentle tone, "I want you to listen to me. That's an order." Reed's eyes snapped open again and he stiffened in the bed as if trying to lie at attention. "I was about to say that if it wasn't for you, chances are none of us would even _be_ here. If you hadn't yelled out that warning the hull wouldn't have been polarized when those torpedoes were launched. Granted, it didn't totally prevent us from taking damage, but getting the hull polarized in time kept us from getting totally blown apart. Even got in a few shots of our own—took out one of the torpedoes and knocked another one off-course enough to keep our port nacelle attached to the ship." He paused to let his words sink in. "Malcolm...you saved our asses."

Reed shook his head, unconvinced. "Doesn't exactly feel that way from here, sir." He looked over at Saunders, still not quite able to fathom how the man had survived. "My god, _he _knows how to put up a fight, doesn't he? Maybe if it had been _him_ in that weapons room, _Enterprise_ wouldn't have taken any damage at all."

Trip pushed back his annoyance as he replied, trying to sound sympathetic. "Saunders is one of your men, and I know you feel bad about him gettin' hurt, but lemme ask you something, Malcolm. If you _coulda _traded places with him over there, would you _really _want _him _to be goin' through what you're dealin' with right now?" Reed silently shook his head, which Trip counted as a victory. "He saved _your _hide, and you saved _ours_. You're both still alive, and so are we, and that's the important thing right now. Blamin' yourself for something you had no control over isn't gonna help any of us, so...cut it out, okay? That's an order," he added gently.

A sigh shuddered out of the lieutenant. "I'll try, sir."

Phlox quietly slipped up behind the captain and commander. "Sorry to interrupt, gentlemen, but it's time to let the lieutenant rest now."

"How am I supposed to rest with this DAMNED STUFF STILL IN ME?" Malcolm raged, muscles trembling involuntarily. "WHY HASN'T THAT BLOODY WOMAN FOUND A WAY TO GET RID OF IT YET?" Clamping his hands on top of his head and squeezing his eyes shut Malcolm moaned in angry frustration. "Sorry, Doctor," he apologized, dropping his hands as he looked at the Denobulan. "I know you and Subcommander T'Pol are doing your best."

"Unfortunately our best is proving to be entirely insufficient," Phlox said with regret. "It appears that the drug has bonded with your cells...which is not an unusual occurrence," he hastened to add when he saw panic filling the lieutenant's eyes. "There are any number of drugs that do the same thing. T'Pol and I think that the best course of action is to try to flush the substance from your system. I would use an unmedicated IV and begin slowly—if you _do_ show improvement we'll increase the input to speed things along. I'd like to get started immediately, but it's going to require that you remain very still so you don't pull out the IV. I know it will be difficult, and uncomfortable—"

"I'll manage," Malcolm said. "Let's get on with it."

"I thought you might feel that way so I've already gotten things ready," Phlox said as he motioned to a nearby instrument table. " But you should be aware that there is no guarantee that it will help."

With a shuddering sigh Malcolm nodded. "Understood."

Trip gave his friend a long, sympathetic look, desperately wanting to shake his hand or give him an encouraging clap on the shoulder but not wanting to cause further discomfort. "Good luck, Malcolm."

Reed gave a grim nod, watching as his friend exited Sickbay with Captain Archer before turning his attention to the doctor's preparations. "So…its injuries were quite severe?" he asked hoarsely and almost hopefully, a few more involuntary tremors coursing through him.

Phlox looked momentarily stunned but recovered. "If you mean the G'l Benai, yes. You heard us talking about him?"

"God, yes," he croaked. "Not your fault—I know you've been doing your best to accommodate my…condition. And it's very much appreciated, but I can hear even the faintest whisper, and the dimmest light seems terribly bright." He watched with foreboding as the doctor finished his preparations, IV needle at last ready to be inserted into the back of his good hand. As the sharp point drew nearer Malcolm anticipated with dread the prick of the needle, certain that his heightened senses would make the insertion unbearably painful. Surprise filled him as he watched the needle slide painlessly into the back of his left hand. Seeing the question in the doctor's eyes, he shook his head. "Just felt like a dull pinch." He waited a long moment before asking the question that now preyed on his mind. "Do you _really_ think Saunders will make a 'satisfactory recovery', or did you just tell them that to put their minds at ease?"

"Mr. Saunders is a very strong young man, in excellent physical condition aside from his injuries, he came through surgery without incident, and his vital signs are currently stable and are slowly improving. So yes, I _really_ think he'll recover." He briefly opened the IV line, allowing the tubing to fill with liquid before closing it off and attaching it to the needle. Adjusting the feed to a slow drip Phlox looked at his patient. "Does that feel all right? Any discomfort?"

Malcolm frowned as he considered it. "Not discomfort, no. It just feels…strange. A little warm. But it's passing." With another sigh he laid his head on the pillow and looked back at the doctor. "Will the G'l Benai make a satisfactory recovery as well?" he asked, trying to not sound too sarcastic.

"It's too soon to tell for certain," Phlox replied as he rechecked the IV, "but I certainly hope so. You should too, if only because he's the only one who can tell us what he injected you with and how we can successfully counteract it."

The lieutenant's scowl deepened. "I suppose you're right…it's just not particularly easy to wish him a speedy recovery after all that's happened. Not to mention that it's just plain _dangerous_ having him onboard. Once he regains consciousness he's quite likely going to start trying to kill people. None of us will be safe as long as he's here."

"I'm not totally oblivious to the likelihood that he'll become violent, you know. I've had security personnel stationed here ever since his arrival and he's just been sedated, so he won't be waking any time soon. In fact, he's headed for surgery as soon as I finish here. Does the IV still feel strange?"

The sensation had almost entirely passed but there was still a vague, uncomfortable, warm feeling deep in his hand. "No…it's fine," he fibbed, eager to be left alone for a bit. "You've got other patients to tend to—no need to hang about here, holding my hand."

The doctor opened the IV feed slightly. "I'm going to speed this up a _tiny_ bit," he explained. "Ensign Pierce will be nearby, so if you start to feel any unusual sensations or discomfort I want you to tell him immediately. If there are no adverse reactions in the next half hour, I'll open the IV a bit more." Phlox gave him a sympathetic smile then as quietly as possible drew the privacy curtains around the bed.

Malcolm noticed for the first time that the curtains had been changed—they were a heavier material than usual, completely blocking his view of the other beds. Just as well, probably—looking at the alien made his mind race with various ways he'd like to kill the bastard, and the sight of Saunders filled him with overwhelming sorrow and regret. And Pierce…he remembered that just before the restraints had come into play, the point of his elbow had firmly connected with something during one of his more crazed periods but he'd only realized much later that it had been the ensign's face.

He tried to ignore the warmth in his hand, which had flared slightly and snuck up to his wrist. Between the intermittent muscle tremors still plaguing him, the incessant crawling feeling beneath his skin and the growing heat now slowly creeping past his wrist, he couldn't entirely contain the small frustrated growl that he was struggling to suppress.

"Lieutenant?" Ensign Pierce cautiously peeked in on Reed. "Can I help with anything?"

The officer forced back the screech that almost burst from him. "No, thank you," he managed in a husky voice, sounding far calmer than he felt even as he fidgeted with embarrassment. "I'm, uh, I'm sorry. About that," he nodded toward the man's face as he absently rubbed the ball of his left palm against the bed. "The eye. I hope it's not…too terribly uncomfortable."

"Don't worry about it, sir," the orderly assured him, risking a small attempt at humor. "It's not like you _meant_ to take me out—you were gunning for Ensign Rossini, I think." Seeing Reed's increasing fidgeting and pained scowl Pierce stepped up to the bed, eyes filled with concern. "Are you all right, sir? Is there a problem with the IV?"

"I think it'll be okay," he tried to put the ensign at ease. "It felt strange when the doctor first started it…just a bit warm at first, nothing unbearable." He flexed his hand, hissing at the still-growing, migrating heat deep within. "It's gotten a tad warmer now, but that should pass soon, shouldn't it?" he asked, rubbing the fingertips of his right hand gingerly over his left forearm.

Pierce gave the IV a quick, uncertain inspection. "I better go check with the doctor about it, see what he says. I'll be right back." The man bustled away before Reed could object.

Glaring at his burning arm Malcolm shot it a frowning sneer. "Traitor," he whispered. As if in reply the burning sensation flared horrendously as it shot up past his elbow, forcing a gasp from him. He tried to hold back the moans working their way out of him as the searing migrated further up his arm but the sounds came out, faint little snarls of pain and frustration. His entire limb was blazing—if he'd been able to get his hands on the G'l Benai's sword he'd have lopped off the appendage to stop the rapidly-growing inferno within.

True to his word the ensign hurried back to Reed's bedside. "Doc's on his way," he assured the lieutenant.

"Take it out," Malcolm hissed desperately, clutching at his elbow. "For the love of God, _please_, take it out."

Pierce looked helpless. "Sir…I can't. I don't know the first thing about those things. I only volunteered a few days ago to help the doctor down here when he needed it, and the first training session didn't cover IVs. Phlox is hurrying; he'll be here soon. Just a few more seconds, I swear."

"I can't…_stand_ it," Reed pleaded through clenched teeth, gasping for breath. "It's burning, my whole arm is burning. Please, you've got to get it out, _now!_" There was nothing faint about the sounds he was making now. He reached for the IV with his right hand, aiming to rip the needle out himself.

Pierce grabbed his arm just above the cast. "Hang on, sir," he urged encouragingly, firmly gripping Malcolm's arm in both hands. "I swear to you he's on the way, he'll be here in a couple more seconds." As if on cue Phlox shoved the curtain aside with his scanner already in hand, his trademark smile wholly absent. T'Pol was several steps behind him and stayed well back as the doctor rushed to the lieutenant's bedside.

"God, Phlox," Malcolm implored, "Get it out. My whole arm's on fire. Take it _out_!" The fingers of his right hand were curled desperately around Pierce's arm, nails digging into flesh as he clung to the man for dear life. It was all he could do to keep from shrieking as blazing pain rocketed through his shoulder.

The doctor took a quick scan of the IV site and the length of the affecting arm, muttering several choice Denobulan expletives at the readings before stuffing the scanner in his pocket and silently removing the line with expert speed and care. Only after the IV was out, cast angrily onto the nearby instrument tray, and a small bandage was carefully placed over the puncture in Malcolm's hand did he speak again. "Is the pain subsiding?" he asked softly as he retrieved the scanner from his pocket and gathered more readings.

Panting, Malcolm hesitated before giving a timid nod. The firestorm was fast cooling as it retreated back down his arm; in less than half a minute the awful sensation was totally gone as if it had never been. Reed looked at the doctor wide-eyed. "What the bloody hell was _that_?" he asked faintly, finally letting go of Pierce as another set of tremors ran through his body.

Phlox sighed in frustration, frowning at the medical scanner. "A combination of things, I fear, and an indication that flushing the substance from your system is not a viable option." He motioned T'Pol closer and handed her the scanner. "As I told you before, the drug has bonded with your cells. Instead of flushing out the chemical, the IV solution apparently irritated the affected cells. Additionally there was some clotting at the needle site that contributed to the discomfort you experienced."

Malcolm saw Pierce sneak a peek at the tray; the ensign blanched, looking momentarily faint as he hastily excused himself. Leaning to see what had unsettled the man, Reed's stomach turned a somersault at the sight of what looked like a long, slender, dark maroon slug clinging to the end of the needle. Pushing aside his revulsion he looked at T'Pol (whose attention was still fixed upon the medical scanner and her padd) then back at the doctor. "So…what else can you try to get this damned stuff out of me?"

"I can't think of anything else to try at present," Phlox sighed. "Probably best for you to recover from this attempt before we try anything else, anyhow."

The subcommander pulled her attention from the padd and scanner and met Reed's eyes. "Judging from these readings the IV caused a dangerous level of stress without providing any measurable benefit. I agree with the doctor—it would be fruitless as well as unwise to attempt anything else at present, even if we did have another method in mind."

Malcolm's desperation flared. "What about all the eels and slugs and worms you've got lounging about here?" he loudly suggested with absolute sincerity. "Surely there's _something_ in your menagerie that could help?"

T'Pol answered as the doctor sadly shook his head. "We _had_ considered that possibility earlier, but test results indicated that the risk and discomfort to you would outweigh any benefits. I will, of course, continue searching for a way to counteract or eliminate the substance."

With supreme effort Reed successfully squelched the impulse to scream obscenities and accusations of incompetence at her; the exertion forced a long, tired, shuddering sigh from him. "I appreciate all of your efforts…both of you." Sinking back on the bed he sighed again, exhausted and defeated. "But maybe…maybe it's time for you to _stop_ searching, Subcommander. I'm beginning to think there _isn't_ a way to get rid of it, and I'm going to be like this the rest of my life."

"Mr. Reed," Phlox gently admonished, "you _mustn't_ give up. I'm sure that with enough time—"

"God, Phlox," Malcolm snapped sarcastically as his eyes went wide, "if you tell me _one more time_ to hold on a little while longer or give me any variation of your incessant battle-cry of '_Optimism_!' I may very well lose what little self-control I have left, and I _guarantee_ that things here will become _extremely _unpleasant if _that _happens." After a long, uncomfortable silence he spoke again, his irritation still obvious but more contained. "I'm sorry, Doctor…it's just so damned _frustrating_…I know you mean well, but it's damned near impossible to maintain anything resembling optimism at this point, and I am bloody well tired of 'holding on a little while longer'.

"Besides which, there is a good deal more at stake here," he continued a bit more calmly, turning his attention to T'Pol. "I don't think that you're incapable of finding a solution, Subcommander, but at this point your time and energy might be better spent helping to get the ship repaired and underway. Chances are very good that our large, furry friend's countrymen will eventually put in an appearance. There's no one on this ship who knows better than you do what they'll do when they get here, save maybe Saunders and myself. Is it logical to continue looking for a solution to _my_ problem when the entire _crew_ is at risk of far worse happening to them? The G'l Benai attacked that Vulcan ship because they _suspected_ the Vulcans _might_ be a threat. They're quite convinced that _we're_ their enemies. Should we really be sitting here dead in the water and defenseless when they show up?"

Fixing her customary dispassionate gaze on him, T'Pol considered his argument before responding. "Your reasoning is sound. Though it would be advantageous to have our Tactical Officer at his post if another G'l Benai ship arrives, it would make little difference with the ship in its present condition." She turned to the doctor. "I believe that the lieutenant is correct—if the G'l Benai find us here, they will undoubtedly board _Enterprise_ and strive to kill everyone on board. I should help ensure that we are not here when they arrive." Handing Phlox the scanner and padd she gave the devices a meaningful look, which drew the doctor's attention to the displays.

She turned back to Reed. "Doctor Phlox is _also_ correct, Lieutenant. You should not give up. The readings seem to indicate that the amount of the chemical in your system is slightly diminished. Though I would need to study a more recent blood sample to be certain, I suspect that the substance _is_ beginning to break down and work its way out of your system on its own, though it appears to be doing so at a _very_ gradual rate. It would be advantageous for you to 'hold on a little longer'. Once the ship is underway I can return if needed."

Phlox broke his intense attention from the padd. "I don't think I've ever seen a drug with such a slow decay rate. If you can spare just a few more minutes before leaving, Subcommander, I'd like to get that new blood sample for you to take a quick look at while I go attend to our guest. Once he's out of surgery I can do a more detailed analysis of the sample."

"Certainly," she agreed, watching dispassionately as the Denobulan drew a fresh vial of blood from Malcolm. The lieutenant scarcely seemed to notice.

"Right then," Malcolm said tiredly, exhaustion suddenly seizing hold of him, "it's agreed. The doctor will go stitch up that hairy behemoth, you'll go help mend the ship, and I'll lay here and try to work up a little optimism, maybe get a little rest, and pray for a more rapid decay rate." Listening to their deafening footfalls as they left he closed his eyes and contemplated the idea of Phlox performing surgery on the alien. With any luck it would die on the operating table. And if it didn't...well, if it didn't die in surgery he might have to dispatch the bastard himself. He dozed off with a faint smile on his face, various methods of killing the beast dancing happily through his mind.


	7. Chapter 7

AUTHOR'S NOTES: As always, standard disclaimers apply. Also, I have been having problems with spaces after italicized words disappearing; as of the final edit all spaces were where they were supposed to be. If any more of them evaporate when I post this, I apologize...NOW, time to find out (among other things) what the G'l Benai used on Malcolm and whether it has totally messed up the Armoury Officer's mind...

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Just over an hour after the doctor took the alien warrior to surgery he contacted the captain, who was ensconced in his Ready Room reviewing damage reports. "I've just finished with our friend, Captain. You should be able to speak with him within the hour."

"And the others?" Archer asked.

"Mr. Saunders is still unconscious at present. He's doing well—to use a Human phrase, I believe he is 'out of the woods'—but he will require more blood transfusions, and it will be some time before he's able to speak. Ensign Sato is almost finished programming a padd for him to use for communicating with us once he regains consciousness. Mr. Reed slept for a brief time and is a good deal calmer at present, but he's still feeling the effects of the alien drug. Now that things have settled down here I'm going to continue looking for a way to counteract or neutralize the substance." Despite the fact that the doctor couldn't see him, the captain nodded.

"Would it be alright to pay Malcolm another visit?"

"I believe a short visit would be acceptable so long as he doesn't become overly agitated."

"We'll be there in a little while. Thank you, Phlox."

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Standing guard at the foot of the G'l Benai's bed a solemn Crewman Atkinson turned and nodded to the captain and Commander Tucker as they entered Sickbay. Both men hesitated at the sight of the privacy curtains drawn around Malcolm's and David's beds—on their previous visits the curtains had been open. As soon as Phlox saw them he directed them to a far corner of the room. "I must apologize, gentlemen…I know I said you could visit him but Mr. Reed has fallen back to sleep," he explained in a low voice, "and I'd like him to stay that way for as long as possible. As far as the G'l Benai, I've run some further tests on our friend and found something rather interesting. The results indicate that he has the same drug in his system as the lieutenant."

"So he poisoned himself, too?" Trip asked.

The doctor shrugged. "It's possible, but I'm not entirely certain that it _is_ a poison. It's possible that the drug has some sort of medical purpose for these people, though why one would want to elevate one's metabolism to such dangerous levels is beyond me."

"No guarantee that it's right," Trip offered after giving it some thought, "but I've got a theory if you're interested." Phlox and Archer both nodded so Tucker continued. "Doc, you said this guy was busted up pretty bad, but he went after our people with more power than a maxed-out warp engine. An' I don't hafta tell you what Malcolm's been like since we found him. What if it's somethin' to keep them goin'? Wouldn't be the first time chemical enhancements were used by soldiers."

"But why give it to _Malcolm_?" Archer wondered aloud. "The G'l Benai made it clear he didn't plan to leave survivors, so why administer something to keep his opponent alive?"

Trip shrugged but Phlox had a suggestion. "From what I've heard of these people, they enjoy combat…perhaps he simply wanted to keep fighting?"

Malcolm's voice—such as it was—drifted out from behind the curtain. "He promised me a quick death," he said dully, his shaking voice sounding as though he'd swallowed broken glass. "Claimed he thought the injection would kill me quickly. Lying bastard."

The men approached his bed and drew the curtain aside, Jon remembering to keep his voice soft as he spoke. "Didn't mean to disturb you, Malcolm. We thought you were sleeping." He stepped to the side of the bed, pushing the chair that was there toward the head of the bed.

A pained humorless laugh escaped the lieutenant. "Not bloody likely with all the noise. Sir," he hastened to add. His eyes, still unsettling in appearance despite the return of some of their natural hue, stared sorrowfully into those of his captain. "It's not that you three were being loud," he assured them. "I know Phlox has been trying to keep the place as quiet as possible, but I can hear _everything_. I'll count it miraculous if the sound of my own heartbeat doesn't deafen me before this is all over. And even when the lights were turned off I could see as if under the noonday sun. Though I must admit, this helps immensely," he added, holding up a black, padded eye mask. "Ensign Pierce loaned it to me after I woke up a little while ago. I'm not usually one for blindfolds, but it was a marvelous relief to have a little darkness. Pity the earplugs didn't work out as well—it was like holding a seashell to both my ears and turning up the volume full bore. As for the rest of it...I suspect that my raging tantrums will be back before too long. This may just be a lull in the action, so to speak."

"You don't know that," Trip said encouragingly, but Malcolm shook his head.

"Our large friend went through a similar period back on their ship. Got very calm, lucid…actually seemed to be listening to me for a few minutes. Then he was back to his old lovable self, stronger and more unreasonable than ever. No adverse reaction when you sedated _him_, was there?" he asked Phlox, bitterness seeping into his ragged voice.

After exchanging glances with Archer and Tucker, the doctor spoke. "He was unconscious and near death when—"

"Not bloody near _enough_," Reed huffed. There was an awkward silence before he spoke again. "Sorry, Doctor," he sighed hoarsely. "Guess I'm just not feeling very charitable at the moment. You were saying…?"

Phlox gave him a fatherly smile. "Apology accepted. I was saying that he was unconscious when brought aboard, so there was no reason to sedate him at that time. Your phase pistol apparently did some damage after all—the life support system of his EV suit shorted out. That, combined with the fluid building up in his lungs and his other injuries, helped take the fight out of him. But you do make an excellent point, because we _did_ eventually administer drugs to him without adverse effects before finding out that he had this stuff in him. The unknown chemical is in both of your systems but his blood shows a smaller quantity. I suspect that his body processes the drug differently."

"Smaller quantity?" Trip asked. "Soo...he gave himself a smaller dose of the same stuff?"

Reed shook his head. "I didn't see him administer it to himself. And trust me, if the initial effects are the same for them as they were for me I _would_ have noticed."

"It's possible that he used it before your encounter with him began and it has had more time to work its way out of his system," Phlox offered.

"I want to see him," Jon said in quiet anger before moving to the G'l Benai's bed, Phlox hustling to follow.

"_Seeing_ him won't be a problem but he's still unconscious, so _questioning_ him may have to wait a little while longer."

"If he's unconscious why are his eyes open?"

Startled by the captain's discovery Phlox rushed to check the G'l Benai. Concern clouded his face as he studied the display over the bed. "His vital signs are becoming very erratic—we may be losing him." Alarms started sounding as if to confirm the doctor's suspicions; the G'l Benai began gasping desperately for air and convulsing.

Jon stepped away as medical personnel converged on the patient, studying the alien as Phlox fought to save the warrior. As with the rest of his body, the leonine man's bandaged hands were far larger than those of any Human. His fingers were not only large but seemed unnaturally long, with each section between the joints not quite the length of Archer's entire thumb. Where fingernails would be on a Human, small slit-like folds of skin were visible at the end of each finger: there was no sign of the long claws T'Pol had told them about. His toes were far shorter than his fingers but they also had the skin-slits. His eyes returned to the man's face as the convulsions faded, his attention lingering a moment on the headset. In case it wasn't a translator he'd already asked Hoshi to see if she could find information about their language from the Vulcan Database as soon as she finished the padd for Saunders. Now he wasn't even sure that the alien would live long enough for the ensign to put her talents to use with him.

As Phlox worked to stabilize the man Malcolm's gravelly, venom-filled voice pulled Archer's attention away from the warrior and back to the man in the bed behind him. "Let it die," the faint voice growled. Archer faced his Armory Officer in shock. Reed's fury-filled eyes were black as night as he glared at the alien in the next bed. "Let it _die_," he demanded more loudly, forcing his trembling body to sit up on the edge of the bed. Trip reached over from the opposite side of the bed to keep him from standing but Malcolm angrily cuffed away the engineer's hands with a growl. Rage and disgust filled the lieutenant as the massive head lolled toward him, glassy, uncomprehending alien eyes half-open and mouth agape as air rattled in and out of the G'l Benai's lungs.

In one fluid movement Malcolm effortlessly rose, seizing the chair from alongside his bed and raising it to club the G'l Benai. Phlox moved to shield his patient but Malcolm showed no sign of even noticing the doctor's presence as he swung the chair. "LET IT DIE! LET IT DIE!" he screamed over and over as Jon intercepted him and managed to wrench the chair from his hands. Trip reached across the bed to grab Malcolm while Archer dodged what would otherwise have been a devastating punch from Reed's cast-encased right hand. Ensign Pierce entered the fray, joining Trip on the opposite side of the bed and hauling the bellowing, livid man across the bed as Archer shoved Reed away from the doctor and helpless patient. Jon felt a small but strong pair of hands grab his arm and yank him from between the beds, Crewman Atkinson's voice filling Sickbay.

"Lieu_TEN_ant!" Her shrill voice cut through Malcolm's screams of rage and silenced her superior with startling efficiency. He glared at her a moment before ceasing his struggles against the men holding him, realization of what he'd tried to do slowly showing on his face. Miranda remained planted firmly between the captain and lieutenant, braced for any further attack from the man on the bed. For half a minute the only sounds aside from medical equipment were those of the men breathing heavily from their exertions and the strained, rattling gasps of the G'l Benai. Malcolm began trembling fiercely.

Pierce tapped the commander on the shoulder and motioned him away. Trip grudgingly complied, watching with concern as the orderly gently helped the unexpectedly docile lieutenant lay back in bed.

"Oh God, oh God," Malcolm moaned softly. "My God, what have I done? What have I become?" Still shivering he laid on his side, curling into a ball. Finding himself staring at the alien in the next bed he closed his eyes as Pierce and another orderly positioned themselves at either side of him. When the captain motioned them away they went only as far as the wall behind the head of the bed and stood ready to intervene. Archer laid a hand on Atkinson's arm and she stepped aside, hesitating briefly before moving to the foot of the G'l Benai's bed but keeping her eyes on the lieutenant a few more moments. Malcolm flinched at the touch of Archer's hand on his shoulder.

"Malcolm…it's all right," Jon tried to console him. "You didn't know what you were doing. It wasn't your fault."

Malcolm almost laughed. "That's just it, sir," he croaked softly. "I _did_ know what I was doing. I just didn't _care_. It's as if it's all instinct and impulse, gratification without regard for consequences." He opened his eyes to study the cast covering his hand and wrist. "My God, I might have injured you, maybe even killed you. And that's what I _wanted_ to do. Strike out, inflict some damage. Would have _preferred_ our friend in the next bed, but just so long as there was _someone_ on the receiving end it didn't really matter. Any carnage will do." He looked over at Phlox and the now-stabilized warrior, whose eyes had drifted closed, and sighed. The shivering eased back to mild tremors before he slowly sat up and addressed his CO, his decision made. "Captain…you have to put me in the brig."

"I'm not going to lock you in the—"

"I'm a _risk_, sir!" Reed snapped loudly, then took a breath to steady himself. "Until this damned stuff either wears off or can be neutralized I am a _danger_ to _everyone_ around me. Surely you _must_ realize that! You have to confine me before I try to hurt anyone else, and I strongly doubt that merely sending me to my quarters will be effective. Sir…_please_," he pleaded. "You _have_ to lock me in the brig!"

"Even if the captain _were_ inclined to do that," Phlox chimed in, "I would not allow it. You are injured, ill, and need to be monitored, so you are staying here. The orderlies will be close by, as will I. And if the situation becomes too desperate we have security personnel close by and restraints at the ready. It was a nice try, Lieutenant, but you're not getting out of Sickbay just yet." He offered a faint, comforting smile, which Reed slowly struggled to return before laying back down.

Jon took a long look at the man huddled on the bed, wanting to comfort him and knowing that no words or actions would ease Malcolm's suffering. Still, he felt he had to do something. With great care Archer covered Malcolm with the blanket, speaking in a whisper. "You're probably sick of hearing this, but try to get some rest. I'm going to go check on Saunders." As the captain disappeared behind the curtain on Malcolm's left and the doctor walked away, taking the orderlies with him, Trip retrieved the chair and sat down beside Malcolm, drawing the curtain enough to block his friend's view of the G'l Benai.

Uncomfortable with the tense silence the engineer at last spoke, his voice hushed. "Gotta hand it to ya, Malcolm…ya sure know how to liven up a place." Reed silently shot an incredulous look at his friend. "Most guys," Trip continued, "woulda been content to just get in a couple punches, but not you. No sir, _you've_ gotta start rearrangin' furniture. Sooo…chairs as weapons. Is that some fancy European thing that I'm unaware of? 'Cuz I don't recall ever hearin' about any of those old-time duels involving recliners at twenty paces. And I _think_ I would remember readin' about the Knights of the Round Table using armchairs during jousts." He was pleasantly surprised to hear a genuine though hoarse laugh.

The lieutenant's weak voice cracked as he spoke. "No Mistah Tuckah, it's not a 'European thing.' I suspect it's an indication that I've been spending far too much time around you Yanks." He laughed again then fell silent as a puzzled expression spread across his face.

Trip's smile faded. "Sorry Mal, I wasn't thinkin'. Prob'ly hurts for you to laugh."

Reed shook his head. "That's just it, Trip—it _doesn't_ hurt. I've got seven broken ribs and two holes in my midsection, fore and aft, and I'm not even sure what else that furry bastard did to me. It should hurt like hell to laugh but it doesn't. My heart's going like a jackhammer, my head is throbbing, my throat's shredded, I feel as though I've a few million insects crawling just beneath the surface of my skin, and every muscle in my body is screaming, but…" His voice trailed off and Trip waited patiently for his friend to continue.

"I remember what I did over there," Malcolm said at last. "When you first came through that door I attacked you. I forgot that you were trying to get me out of there—I was sure more of _them_ had shown up and I was determined to fight them off. _Wanted_ to fight, even with this," he added, holding up his injured hand. "And a few minutes later I grabbed his sword and tried to use it on him. On all of you," he admitted with shame. "And the ribs, the stab wounds, the hand—I didn't feel any of it. Hell Trip, I still had his dagger sticking out of my arm and _that_ didn't even hurt.

"It's like I've discovered some unique level of hell, Trip. How can I not feel broken bones and knife wounds yet still be in such agony?" he asked, voice trembling with the effort of reining in his emotions. "And that's not even counting what's happening to my _mind_. I truly believe I'm going mad."

"You gotta stop thinkin' like that, Malcolm. You're not going mad, it's that damned drug old furface shot into ya. Once that's outta you're system you'll be good as new."

Malcolm shook his head. "I'm not so sure of that, Trip. Back on their ship I could have injured or killed all of you with that bloody sword. I _knew_ that…the whole time I was trying to get at that damned behemoth part of me _knew_ I was putting you all at risk, but it didn't matter. I didn't give a damn about any of you—all that mattered was slitting that monster open and watching his entrails pour out of him. And what just happened a few minutes ago…I desperately wanted to kill the bastard, and if I had to go through Doctor Phlox or Captain Archer to do it, that's what I was going to do.

"Trip…I've never been more afraid in my life. I'm terrified of the thoughts I'm having, the things I'm imagining doing. The things I know I'm _capable_ of doing. You _have_ to talk to the captain. _Please_, Trip…he's your _friend_, he'll _listen_ to you. I'm. Going. To. _Hurt_. Someone. You have to convince him to lock me up before something terrible happens. _Please_. You _have_ to persuade him to put me in the brig before it's too late."

Tucker shook his head. "Malcolm…even if I _wanted_to talk him into doing that, his mind's made up, and so's the doc's. It's _not_ gonna _happen_. I know you're frustrated, and I know you're scared. We're scared, too. Dammit, we almost lost you over there, an' even now that we've got you back all we can do is stand around an' watch you go through this. I didn't think I could feel more helpless than I did when those doors closed over there, but this is worse. At least on that ship we could _try_ to help, work on ways to get you guys out. But just waiting around for this stuff to work its way outta your system, not able to do anything to make it better…" As gently as possible he laid a hand on his friend's shoulder. "We're not gonna lock you up, Malcolm. The doc's right. You need to be _here_, where he can keep an eye on you, make sure that crap in your bloodstream doesn't do anything worse to you. An' Phlox is gonna keep tryin' to find a way to counteract it, and you _know_ how persistent he can be. We're not giving up, Malcolm, an' you shouldn't, either. I _know_ you're strong enough to get through this." The lieutenant sighed, unhappily resigned to the situation, and Trip sought to reassure him. "Like Phlox said, he's gonna have the orderlies stick around, plus there'll be some of your people here keepin' an eye on our guest, so they'll be able to help if needed. An' don't forget," he added with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes, "Phlox promised to use the restraints if you give him too much grief."

That brought momentary laughter and a smile from Malcolm. "Ah, yes…God bless the restraints," he quipped hoarsely, sighing more happily this time as he shifted position. He quickly grew thoughtful as he met the engineer's eyes. "You mentioned trying to figure out how to get us out…so how _did_ you finally get those damned doors open?"

"Couldn't have done it without our fuzzy buddy's help," Trip confessed with a nod toward the G'l Benai sleeping behind him. "When he decided to take you into their Armoury he apparently forgot that we were watching. Once we saw how he accessed the door controls the rest was pretty easy, though I gotta admit that it's a lot harder to find the right panel in the ceiling when you're on the _outside_ of the door. We'd been looking for one like you an' Saunders found on your side but the bastards put the one on _our_ side flush with the ceiling, and the seams were damned near impossible to see so it took a little extra searching before we spotted it. But once we _did_ find it and made sure it wasn't boobytrapped—"

"Boobytrapped?"

"Yeah. We figure that when you guys went down that corridor you triggered a defense system that had a separate power source from the rest of the ship. T'Pol thinks that the console that blew up on their bridge was sabotaged, so we were worried that the door controls might have been rigged, too. Fortunately we didn't find any surprises waiting for us. Of course, before we could do _anything_ we had to find the closest spot where we could use the transporter so we wouldn't have to shinny up and down the turbolift shaft. Turns out that whatever shielding or dampening field they've got on that Battledeck of theirs doesn't actually extend through the entire deck. T'Pol did some tweaking on the sensors and found a spot down the corridor from you, near the turbolift. And getting the doors open apparently weakened or deactivated some of the shielding so we didn't even have to take you guys all the way back to our original transport site."

"Please give everyone involved my sincerest thanks...and my apologies for not giving them a more hospitable welcome."

"I'll pass it along," Trip assured him with a twinkle in his eyes. Malcolm smiled at his friend; the smile quickly faded, though, as he first gasped then screamed in agony as the muscles in his legs cramped simultaneously. Trip looked around desperately for the doctor. "PHLOX!" Yanking the curtain aside Archer left Saunders and hastened to Reed's side, unsure what to do.

The Denobulan raced to the bed. "Lieutenant?"

"Cramps..." Reed gasped as he sat up, reached for his calves and screamed again.

Phlox motioned Trip to the foot of the bed began issuing orders. "Take his right ankle and straighten his leg. Captain, you do the same with the left leg. Push his toes up toward his shins."

"NOOoo!" Malcolm squealed as the men warily obeyed, his protests slowly dying as the cramps began to loosen. "Oh godohgodohgod..." He laid back, gasping for breath as his calves kept trying to re-cramp.

Expert hands explored his legs as Phlox felt the miscreant muscles. "Mr. Pierce, go to the storage locker and get two large towels and a blanket from the linen warmer, and please be quick about it. Captain, Commander, keep holding his feet in position and with your other hand you're going to use the tips of your fingers and press _here_," he pointed to the plumpest part of the back of Malcolm's calves. "And don't be timid. Keep applying pressure...it may take a few minutes but you should be able to feel the hardness subsiding. When Mr. Pierce returns you're going to help me wrap the towels around Mr. Reed's legs. Malcolm, with your hyper-stimulated senses there's a chance the heat will cause some discomfort, but please try to bear with it."

Reed nodded and swallowed hard, his voice shaking. "It started to let up as soon as they moved my feet, but if they let go I think it'll start up again." He was shivering violently, teeth chattering as if he were freezing.

"Don't worry, Malcolm," Archer assured him. "We're not gonna let go. We've got you." Pierce came racing back with the linens and stopped alongside Phlox and Trip.

"Thank you Ensign. Commander, lift his leg a little more, please," Phlox instructed as he took a towel from Pierce, "and you'll need to remove your hand from his calf to help me position the towel." Malcolm flinched and bit back a shout as they wrapped his right leg. "Excellent...please lower his leg and resume pressing on the calf, Commander. When you feel the muscles begin to relax please begin gently massaging the back of his leg." Taking the other towel from the orderly Phlox moved to Archer's side of the bed. "Your turn, Captain. The same as Mr. Tucker, please." By the time they had the towel around Malcolm's left leg Trip was slowly, gently rubbing up and down on the back of Malcolm's wrapped leg. Phlox took the blanket and draped it over Malcolm, encouraged that the trembling was subsiding.

"Trip?" Malcolm spoke timidly. "Could you...use a little...more pressure? Please?"

"Sure thing, Mal. Wasn't sure if it would hurt to press too hard."

Reed shook his head, his voice strained. "No. Feels good. Think the heat's...working it's magic. It's just...a little embarrassing...asking for a massage...from my superiors."

Trip looked at the others with a smirk. "Oh yeah...he's feelin' better. Almost good as new." Archer shook his head with relief as he too began rubbing Malcolm's left calf, mimicking the slow, steady rhythm that Trip had begun. Both men tried to stifle their relieved smiles at Malcolm's moans of relief as the muscles continued to relax.

Letting his head drop to one side, Malcolm looked over at Saunders—or what he could see of him. The curtain was still partly drawn so he could only see the crewman's blanket-covered form from the hips down. He thought he remembered catching a glimpse of the man when he'd first been brought to Sickbay but his memory of it was cloudy from whatever had been shot into him. Out of necessity he had been strapped to the exam table despite his still having most of the EV suit on—the memory of _that_ was vivid, as was the memory of him screaming about Saunders being dead. They'd told him the crewman was still alive as Saunders had been bustled off to surgery but he hadn't believed them; sure that they were just trying to placate him, he'd been deafeningly vocal and embarrassingly vulgar with his accusations that they were lying to him. But Trip had carefully, firmly, desperately seized his face and stared deeply into his eyes as he'd lain there. _"Malcolm, __I __swear __to __you __he's __alive. __He __was __still __breathin' __when __we __found __him, __and __he's __still __breathin' __now."_ Those passionate blue eyes would not have lied to him. As improbable as it seemed, Saunders must have still been alive, because Trip had said so. Even so, even knowing that Trip hadn't—wouldn't—lie to him, it still seemed an impossibility.

He had to ask again. "He's still alive, right?" His eyes were still riveted to the crewman's legs.

The smirk blossomed into a full smile as Trip kept massaging. "Yep. Like I told you before, Irish granny and British grandpa. Lucky and stubborn. Sorry," he corrected after a moment, humor in his voice, "I forgot. Determined, not stubborn."

Malcolm risked a soft chuckle before growing somber again. "I want to see him. I need to talk to him."

Archer shook his head. "I was just over there, Malcolm. He's still unconscious. Phlox says he's not going to be able to talk for a while because of the damage, so Hoshi's going to bring a padd for him to use once he wakes up. You can talk to him then, okay?"

No, it bloody well _wasn't_ okay, but he somehow kept from screaming his objections—it would be unseemly to bellow 'go to hell' at his captain, after all—and instead nodded as he kept staring over at David's feet. Part of him understood: they were no doubt trying to protect him. They'd all seen what it looked like to get bitten by one of those _things_, after all, and Saunders had gotten worse than an ear bitten off. Hell, part of him _didn't_ want to know how bad it was, but another part _had_ to know. "Is it...I mean...it's pretty bad, isn't it? That's why you won't let me see him, isn't it, sir?"

Archer's hand hesitated then resumed its careful ministrations. "He looks a lot better than I thought he would," he admitted. "I think I kinda let my imagination run wild for a while...kept envisioning the worst. It's bad, but not as bad as I expected it to be." Probably best to not hold back too much. "There's a breathing tube, an IV, and some bandages on his throat and his left cheek. He's getting a transfusion right now, and will likely need another in a little while. But Phlox thinks he's out of the woods."

"Indeed I do," the doctor confirmed as he first felt and then scanned Malcolm's legs. "If it's all right with the lieutenant I think you can stop now, gentlemen. Thank you for your assistance." They looked at Malcolm, who nodded.

"It's all right...they've stopped. I can't thank you enough for your help." He looked at Phlox, trying to hide his fear. "That's not going to happen again, is it? I don't think I could bear another bout of cramps like that."

"I wish I could say it wouldn't," Phlox answered with regret, "but I honestly don't know. Regrettably, it's a distinct possibility, but I'm sure I have some massage pads—we can wrap them around your legs and the pads provide gentle, continuous vibrations to help keep the muscles relaxed." He motioned to the curtain behind Archer. "Captain, would you mind, please?" With a silent nod Jon drew the curtain closed, blocking Malcolm's view of David's legs. "I'll go check the storage locker." The doctor had only taken a few steps when a loud yawning moan from the G'l Benai stopped him in his tracks. Changing direction he started toward the alien but froze as the felinoid's heterochromic eyes, pupils nearly normal, met his gaze.

Slowly raising his left arm, he paused to briefly study the dressing on his hand and experimentally flex him fingers before reaching to gingerly touch the headset he was still wearing. Satisfied that it hadn't been lost or removed, he lowered his arm. "Hmm," the alien hummed in puzzlement. "You are Denobulan," he observed in his own language, speaking slowly to give the translator time to do its job. "I had not expected that. How long have you been kept prisoner by these creatures? Do you wish me to kill them for you so that you may regain your freedom?"

"I am not a prisoner," Phlox informed him. "I am here of my own volition, serving as the ship's chief medical officer. And no, I most certainly do _not_ want you to kill them."

Looking past Trip and fixing his sapphire/jade eyes on Malcolm, the warrior spoke with a trace of admiration in his deep voice. "He is far more…resilient…than I would have thought possible for a Human. I did not expect him to endure the stimulant for this long. It should have killed him far more quickly than this."

"Stimulant?" Phlox asked curtly. "What kind of stimulant? What's it supposed to do?" The G'l Benai gave a derisive snort.

"It is a standard-issue combat stimulant, used when battles become…extended. And it is doing what it is _supposed_ to do. It heightens senses, increases strength, stamina and alertness, and helps dull the pain of battle injuries."

Phlox was incensed but controlled his anger—barely. "And why exactly did you administer it to this man?"

The warrior shrugged, his jade eye squinting slightly. "It was an…impulsive act. Difficulty controlling impulsive behavior is an unfortunate side effect of the drug. It takes a measure of discipline to prevent the animal mind from overpowering the rational mind and my control…lapsed…for a moment. I had promised him a quick death—usually I would have used my sword or rifle, but the voices of the fallen suggested using the stimulant. They thought it unfair that our enemy should be granted a virtually painless death when _their_ deaths were neither swift nor painless. But I had already promised him a quick death, so I had to find a way to satisfy the will of the fallen while still keeping my word. Once the idea of using the stimulant was in my mind I was unable to dismiss it. Having heard stories of the physical frailty of Humans, I was _certain_ it would kill him quite rapidly. I must have miscalculated the dosage," he added as he looked at Malcolm. "I apologize."

The doctor was rendered momentarily speechless by rage, but he knew he still had to do his job. Storming over to the G'l Benai's side he fixed an icy stare on his patient. "Judging from the results of your blood tests you administered it to yourself as well. When did you do that?"

"When I realized that my captain's ship had been boarded I knew I would eventually have to engage the intruders. Such a confrontation would not have been possible without another dose of the stimulant. So I administered a half-dose just before that one blew up Tactical Station," he grinned, motioning to Malcolm.

"_Another_ dose?" The doctor was incredulous. "When did you take the _first_ dose?"

"When these soulless cowards attacked my captain's ship I was injured. When the decision was made to lead the survivors away my captain needed someone to stay behind, to provide cover fire for the transports, and to try to protect the fallen. I administered a full-dose to myself at that time so that I could do what my captain required of me. My battle-brother did the same."

"These people are _not_ cowards," Phlox defended his crewmates, "and they had _nothing_ to do with the attack on your ship. Now, how long does it usually take for this stimulant to work its way out of someone's system?" Phlox asked.

The alien tilted his head, thinking a long moment before speaking. "Not my ship. My captain's ship. As for the stimulant, there are many variables to consider. Size of the dose, size and physical condition of the warrior, battle conditions—these must be taken into consideration. I know of some cases where it lasted only a few hours and a few instances where the effects remained for days."

"_DAYS_?" Malcolm screamed, trying to leap from the biobed. The orderlies stationed near Reed's bed expertly seized the howling lieutenant, straining to keep him in bed as he fought against them. "YOU HAIRY BASTARD, I'LL _KILL_ YOU! LEMME GO!" he commanded the orderlies, who had been joined by Phlox, Jon, and Trip in the fight to keep him in bed. As they finally pinned him down he bellowed incoherently, the coarse, prolonged howls drowning out all other sound.

"LIEUTENANT!" Archer shouted at the struggling man to make himself heard, "you've _got_ to try to _calm __down_!"

"_GO __TO __HELL_!" Malcolm shrieked at the top of his lungs, black eyes blazing with rage as he glared murderously at Archer. He strained and struggled desperately against the arms holding him down. Phlox began strapping him to the bed, the orderlies doing all they could to help without losing their grip on the growling, combative man.

"NO! LET GO OF ME! LET GO OF MELETGOOFMELETGOOFMEEE!" Spent at last, Malcolm stopped screaming and lay trembling on the bed, gasping and grunting for breath as he strained against the straps. The men who had restrained him were breathing heavily as well, winded from their efforts.

"You should do as he asks," the G'l Benai cooed, his voice seductively soft and deep. "Let him come so that I may fulfil my promise and grant him a quick death. He has earned the right to die on his feet."

The doctor glared at him. "_That_ is _not_ going to happen. Now, _tell_ me how to neutralize the stimulant," he demanded.

"To the best of my knowledge it cannot be _neutralized_. It must be…withstood." Loud frustrated growls spewed from Malcolm as he struggled anew against the restraints.

"There must be _some_ way," the doctor insisted angrily, "_something_ that can be done."

The warrior squinted as he offered a faint, malicious sneer to the doctor. "You _could_ try shooting him with one of those tiny toy guns he is so fond of. _That_ might help."

Phlox gave an angry, exasperated sigh; before Archer could speak Trip exploded. "What the hell's _wrong_ with you! We came here to help you people an' all you've done since we met you is try to kill us! I'm beginnin' to see why somebody'd wanna attack you!"

"Trip, that's enough," Jon warned quietly but Trip plowed ahead.

"As far as I can tell, you folks _deserved_ what you got."

"Commander!" Archer snapped. "Enough!"

They all watched uneasily as the G'l Benai slowly sat up and swung his legs over the edge of the bed, glaring down at the engineer. "Deserved? We…_deserved_?" he snarled, his deep voice menacing. Atkinson's hand rested on her holster as Phlox moved to the alien's side in an effort to calm him.

"You need to lie down," he told his patient sternly, placing a hand firmly on the man's shoulder. "The last thing I need right now if for you to re-injure yourself or create any more patients for me to put back together." Their eyes met and the G'l Benai's ears slowly folded back against the top of his head. Drawing his lips back he growled, looking down at the doctor's hand as if it were an offensive insect perched on his arm. Cautiously withdrawing his hand Phlox backed away and the growling stopped. For the briefest moment the only sound was that of Malcolm struggling futilely against the straps pinning him to the biobed, the restraints creaking in protest.

Ears still flattened back, the angry alien turned his attention back to Commander Tucker. "You say we '_deserved_'. Clarify," he demanded, his deep voice deceptively calm but rage clearly visible in his black, narrowed eyes.

Trip folded his arms across his chest, unintimidated. "I don't hafta 'clarify' _anything_ to you, Snowball," he shot back smugly, satisfied that he'd obviously struck a nerve.

Ominous rumbling emanated from deep within his chest as the G'l Benai's eyes opened wide. With lightning speed he leapt from the bed, seizing Tucker just above the elbows and hoisting the engineer into the air until the men were at eye level with one another. Atkinson drew her weapon but was knocked to the floor alongside the now-vacant biobed as the behemoth struck her with the engineer.

"Let go of him!" Reed and Archer demanded simultaneously, Malcolm's ragged voice almost drowning out that of his captain. The alien ignored them, pulling Trip closer until their noses were almost touching. Tucker dangled motionless, gasping in pain as the warrior's claws extended from the skinslits of his fingers, digging easily through Trip's uniform and piercing the flesh beneath. Trip stared wide-eyed at the G'l Benai's massive face, the creature's rumbling voice filling the room and vibrating through his whole body.

"CLARIFY!" the warrior roared as he gave the man a powerful, excruciating shake. "You claim your people's attack on us was justified. Explain! Of what crime was my daughter condemned that she should be killed before she had begun her fourth year of life?" Silence filled the room until the distraught warrior continued, his voice trembling with rage and grief. "What atrocities did my other children commit against you that they had to die before drawing their first breath? Were their crimes were so heinous that they had to be slain while they still dwelt in their mother's _womb_? What did they do to you to _deserve_ this? CLA…RI…FY!" Trip could only shriek in reply as the claws dug deeper into his flesh and the G'l Benai shook him again.

Archer tried to intervene. "We didn't have anything to do with the attack on your ship. We came to help you, and we can still do that if—"

"You tell the same lies as _that_ one," the warrior snarled, motioning with his head toward Malcolm. "There was a moment on my captain's ship when I almost believed him." He turned his attention to the lieutenant, emotion filling his voice. "I saw you when you reached the bottom of the lift shaft. Watched you crouching over their shattered bodies, knowing I could do nothing to protect them from whatever desecrations you would commit against them. But you did nothing to them, made no move against them. It was almost as though you were showing…respect to them. So when you spoke to me of helping us, I hesitated. I _deluded_ myself into thinking that it might be so.

"I almost believed you," he repeated. "The stimulant must have clouded my judgment more than I realized, for even after witnessing the savagery of your species with my own eyes I almost heeded your words. Thank The Ancestors the voices of the fallen helped clear my thinking—I know now that your words were falsehoods and deceptions. And I know _now_ what you were doing as you crouched over them. You were _gloating,_" he accused in disgust. "Admiring the handiwork of your people. Planning what sort of trophies to make of the bodies." Reed shook his head in stunned, silent protest but the warrior merely sneered at him. "Perhaps their teeth and claws will make suitable jewelry for your mates and offspring," he suggested bitterly as his attention returned to the still dangling engineer. "I'm sure their hides will make fine blankets, or perhaps rugs for your bedchamber. Their heads will no doubt adorn the walls of your living quarters if they do not already. And you can point to your _trophies_ and brag to your guests of your _glorious_ battle against frightened children and slumbering old women."

"No one is going to do anything like that," Archer interrupted.

The alien glared down at him. "_This_ one," he replied, giving Tucker another painful shake, "has shown me the _true_ nature of your species. You are savages…animals…you celebrate the murder of elders sleeping in their beds and cheer the killing of children." He dug his claws still deeper into Trip's flesh, enjoying the pain he was inflicting. Until something solid nudged into the top of his skull.

"I am very sorry for your loss," Crewman Atkinson said, sympathetic but firm. "Now _put__…__him__…__down_." Standing on the biobed, she held her position as the G'l Benai turned his head toward her slightly and began growling. "If you _don't_ put him down," she calmly announced over the growling, "I'm going to have to _shoot_ you, and I'm pretty sure that this 'tiny toy gun' will have a lot more of an effect on you now that you're not wearing that armored EV suit of yours."

The growling abruptly ceased. Tongue gliding out of his mouth and across his nose, he appraised the woman before speaking. "You think I _fear_ you?" he snorted indignantly.

"I think you're at least as afraid—and as angry—as you were back on your captain's ship. I _also_ think it is _well_ past time for you to _put. __Him. __Down_."

He looked back to Trip, black eyes still filled with menace. "It is not finished between us," he snarled before flinging the commander backward across Sickbay, not entirely retracting his claws as he did so. Ignoring the doctor and captain as they rushed to help the injured man to the exam table, he instead studied his bloody claws and fingertips then began licking the fresh blood from them. As the doctor cut away the commander's sleeves and tended Tucker's wounds the warrior stared with disgust at the engineer. He spat the blood onto the floor before looking at Atkinson, who was still perched on the biobed. An almost genuine smile spread across his face. "If you were not Human it might be possible for me to like you. Your courage is splendid—apparently even _savages_are able to possess _some_ admirable qualities. It almost saddens me that you will soon die with the rest of them. But at least _yours_ is _worthy_ blood. Not like _his_," he observed, aiming another glare at Tucker and spitting on the floor again.

"Atkinson," Malcolm hissed hoarsely as he renewed his struggles against the restraints, "Get away from him…_now_."

The G'l Benai laughed. "Your mate thinks I intend to kill you. Indeed, I could. Easily." To prove it he spun to face her and seized the hand holding the pistol. Their eyes locked. "And perhaps I _should_," he said softly, gripping her hand firmly, claws slowly extending and retracting as his eyes almost dared her—or possibly pleaded with her—to pull the trigger. She stared back, startled but unflinching. "Perhaps I should," he repeated even more softly before letting go. "But even knowing what my fate will be at the hands of your vulgar species, I choose not to do so."

"What exactly do you think we're going to do to you?" the captain asked, taking a step forward. The movement distracted the warrior; Atkinson took advantage of the diversion, gracefully stepping backward off the opposite side of the bed. She kept her weapon trained on the alien as he took a step toward Captain Archer. Jon calmly stared up at the huge leonine man as the G'l Benai glared down at him with contempt.

"Who are you?"

"I'm Captain Archer."

"Ahh," he sneered at Archer, "the little ghallas has finally come out of his burrow."

The captain smiled faintly, motioning for Atkinson to lower her weapon. "You haven't answered my question. What do you think we're going to do to you?"

"I have heard the stories regarding your people. You…_capture_ your enemies," he snarled with disgust. "_Shackle_ them. _Cage_ them. You force them to remain _alive_, for your _amusement_. I thought the stories to be exaggerations, but now I know they must be true. Creatures who celebrate the deaths of children and the murder of elders are capable of…_anything_. You shackle even your _own_ people," he growled, motioning to Malcolm. "Am I to believe that the same fate does not await _me_?"

"No one here wants to shackle or cage you," Archer said earnestly.

"SPEAK FOR YOURSELF!" Malcolm shrieked, then squeezed his eyes tightly shut as a fresh wave of tremors wracked his body. "Damn it," he murmured in a shaky, coarse voice. "Damn it, damn it DAMN IT!"

Jon stared at Reed a moment before speaking to the G'l Benai again. "The opinions of my Tactical Officer are not the same as mine," he stated calmly. "And I'm sure you'll agree that his behavior and judgment have been adversely affected both by recent events and the drug you gave to him."

The man stared down impassively at Archer. "On the effects of the stimulant at least, we can agree, though I tend to think that if anything it has perhaps made him more honest about your true intentions."

"We came to help," the captain insisted again but the alien wrinkled his nose in disgust.

"Your words are as empty as your hearts," he replied. "Your people take captives and shackle even your own. You kill children and old women and revel in their deaths. When my people come they will avenge us."

"Your people said they weren't _coming_, remember?" Reed snapped gleefully, straining against the straps .

"They said they could not _assist_," the warrior corrected. "They did not say they would not _come_." He smiled smugly at the shocked silence. "When my people come they will board this flimsy vessel. The Denobulan _may_ escape harm—to my knowledge his people have never sought to harm the G'l Benai. The children and elders will be spared as well, for _we_ are not _savages_, but the rest of you will be killed." He turned his attention to Trip before continuing, eyes narrowing. "And when you are all dead my people will stand amid your broken, lifeless bodies, scrubbing your unworthy blood from their blades, and they will say to one another, 'These creatures…_deserved __what __they __got_.'"

Before Archer could reply another agonized scream erupted from the lieutenant as all the muscles in his legs seized simultaneously. Back arched as much as the restraints would allow, his legs strained against the straps as excruciating cramps tried to force his legs into the fetal position. His vital signs leaped above their already-dangerously high levels. Phlox directed the orderlies to the bed and they began trying with limited success to again relax the muscles with pressure points and massage.

Knowing he could do nothing more for his patient Phlox strode angrily up to the G'l Benai. "There must be _some_ way to counteract its effects!" the Denobulan demanded in a murderous tone, shouting to make himself heard over the screams. " Tell me how to _help_ him!"

"I have already suggested a way to help him, but you refuse to do it." As the cramps subsided on their own and Malcolm's cries faded the G'l Benai studied first the lieutenant then at the curtain around Crewman Saunders' bed at length before asking, "Which will kill them first—lack of food or lack of water?"

"I beg your pardon," Phlox snapped indignantly, "but _what_ kind of question is _that_?"

"A valid one. When the rest of this vessel's crew is dead and you have been removed there will be no one to care for them. My people will not harm them—it is not honorable to slay those in such a helpless state—but they will not render aid either, for they are enemies of the G'l Benai. They will be left as they are. With no one to tend to their needs and unable to do so themselves they will succumb either to hunger or thirst. I want to know which will claim them first."

"I see no reason to satisfy your morbid sense of curiosity," Phlox replied coolly, "and I have absolutely no intention of being _removed._ Gentlemen," he addressed the captain and commander," I think it would be best if you left _now_."

"You will not be given a choice, Denobulan. Or perhaps more accurately, your choice will be to either be removed alive with the elders and children to eventually be returned to your people, or stay and die. As for these two..._their_ fate will worse than that of the others," the warrior observed aloud as he motioned to his fellow patients. "A shame that the only ones among you who have earned honorable deaths should instead die flat on their backs, shackled and helpless. Perhaps my people will take pity on you," he told Reed. "If they shut down life support in this section it would bring death in hours or sooner, rather than days or weeks."

"Doctor," Malcolm said as calmly as his hoarse, shaking voice permitted, homicidal jet-black eyes locked on the alien, "get these _bloody_ straps off of me, _now_."

"I'm sorry, Lieutenant, but I can't risk having you doing any further damage to yourself." Seeing Archer and Tucker still standing there Phlox escorted them to the door, giving them a firm nudge out the opening when they hesitated**.**

The G'l Benai's voice wafted through the doors just before they closed. "If they vent the atmosphere from this section after disabling life support it would only take a few minutes for you to die," he 'assured' Reed. "That would surely be more merciful, would it not?"

Jon knew that Trip wanted to march back into Sickbay to confront the alien—hell, so did he—but they had to return their attention to repairs. When Trip remained rooted to the spot the captain guided him away from the door with a firm hand on his friend's back. Before he could bring himself to discuss the ship, however, there was one thing he _had_ to know.

He dropped his hand from Trip's back and stopped to look at the engineer. "_Snowball_?"

Trip looked sheepishly at the floor then back to Archer. "Yeah…I dunno, it just kinda…jumped out. My sister has this big white cat, and he can be annoying as hell, and…"

"And his name is Snowball," the captain finished, shaking his head. "Mind telling me what the hell you were _thinking_?"

"I _wasn't_ thinking," the engineer admitted angrily, without regret, "I was pissed off. I mean, you've _seen_ what Malcolm's goin' through because of him, and the smug bastard is _enjoyin'_ it. Plus what he did to Saunders, _and_ the ship. So yeah, I admit it, it felt kinda good to rattle the furball's chain a little."

"Did it still feel 'kinda good' when he got his hands on you?"

"Not so much," Tucker sheepishly admitted as he looked down at the bandages on his upper arms and surveyed his ruined uniform. He gingerly touched one of the dressings and winced.

"I almost lost two men to him already, Trip," Archer scolded crossly, "and antagonizing our guest almost made you number three. Not to mention how much harder it's going to be for me to persuade him we're not his enemies now that he's convinced we're glad that his _family_ was killed. That little dust-up you had with him didn't exactly make my job any easier, even if it did make you feel _kinda __good_." He sighed from frustration and exhaustion, fleetingly scrubbing his face with both hands. Time to change the subject. "I need you to concentrate on repairs. We need the engines up and running, and we need them sooner rather than later." He started down the corridor, Trip falling into step beside him.

"We'll prob'ly have impulse back within an hour, but warp's gonna take a couple more hours, at least."

"We may not _have_ a couple more hours, Trip. We have no way of knowing when our guest's comrades are gonna start showing up, but it's a safe bet they'll be in a _very_ bad mood when they get here. So far we've just been damned lucky that they haven't already gotten here. Now I don't know about you, but I don't think our luck's gonna hold out indefinitely. Do whatever you need to d—"

Another of Malcolm's heart-stopping animalistic screams, coupled with roars from the G'l Benai, came through the closed doors of Sickbay and filled the corridor. Both men froze for an instant, racing back toward Sickbay when the sound of objects being thrown and broken joined the screams. Atkinson's desperate shouts rivaled the primal noises coming from the lieutenant.

Jon and Trip were still several meters from the door when they heard a phase pistol discharge twice.

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The scene that met them wasn't entirely what they were expecting. An overturned chair and the contents of an instrument tray were scattered about the room. One orderly, bleeding from a gash on his forehead, was helping Phlox up from the floor; Pierce was crouched next to Malcolm, who was out cold and crumpled on the floor near the doctor. The G'l Benai was seated on the end of his biobed serenely taking in the spectacle while a shocked-looking Atkinson, phase pistol still drawn, couldn't seem to decide whether to keep her attention on the alien or the unconscious lieutenant.

"Phlox…what happened?" Archer asked, reaching out to help steady the doctor.

The breathless Denobulan rubbed his throat with one hand as he answered shakily. "I wouldn't have thought it possible but the lieutenant…broke loose." Jon and Trip looked first at the still form of the Armory Officer then at the bed he had recently occupied. Some of the restraints hung uselessly from the side of the bed; others, torn entirely from their moorings, had dropped to the floor.

Phlox knelt next to Pierce, still shaking his head in disbelief as he checked his patient. "Incredible," the doctor muttered. "The restraints might as well have been made of paper." He looked up at Atkinson. "Crewman, are you alright?" She nodded mutely, all of her attention now on her CO as she holstered her weapon.

"I want to thank you," Phlox continued. "I'm not sure what I would have done without your assistance."

She stared at Phlox. "But…I _shot_ him," she whispered in disbelief.

The doctor nodded. "I know," he said sympathetically, "but if you hadn't acted when you did—"

"I. _Shot._ Him," she repeated softly, as if afraid the lieutenant would hear her.

"It was the only way to make him let go, Miranda." Phlox motioned to the orderlies. "Help me get him back in bed."

The G'l Benai hopped from the bed and strode over before anyone could react. Wordlessly crouching next to Malcolm he sniffed at the still form before carefully lifting him and placing him almost tenderly on the bed. Looking at Phlox he bowed respectfully then stepped back to his own bed. Perching on the foot of the bed he swung one leg over so he was straddling the bed, then smiled smugly. "I _told_ you shooting him might help." Phlox fought to ignore the comment as he scanned Reed.

Jon tore his gaze from Malcolm to look at Atkinson, who had a worried, sickly look on her face as she continued staring at her fallen CO. "What happened, Crewman?" he demanded gently.

She turned to him; it took a few seconds for her to form a reply. "Lieutenant Reed…he kept demanding that the doctor let him loose, and when Phlox wouldn't do it he broke free and…he grabbed Phlox by the throat." She stared into Archer's eyes, clearly still rattled by what had happened.

"We heard the G'l Benai, too," Trip observed softly, casting a cautious look at the seemingly placid alien. "He cause any trouble?"

Miranda shot a disgusted glare at the warrior. "_He_ never made a move…just sat there roaring like he was cheering on his favorite rugby team while the lieutenant was…" Her features softened and she looked suddenly ill. "The lieutenant wouldn't let go of the doctor, and we couldn't pull him off…I didn't know what else to _do_, sir." Her eyes returned to Archer then she looked down guiltily at her phase pistol. "I shot once…he kind of flinched, and he looked at me, but he still had a death grip on Phlox so…I shot again." The doctor stepped over to her, placing a comforting hand on her shoulder.

"Phlox, I didn't...I mean, he's not...did I hurt him? He's not—"

"He's unconscious, and _no_, you didn't hurt him. In fact," he admitted grudgingly, "his vital signs appear to finally be leveling off."

A condescending snort erupted from the G'l Benai. "Hah! You see?" he motioned accusingly at the doctor. "I was _right_—shooting him _did_ help."

Trip angrily took a step forward but Jon shoved him back toward the door as the warrior slid from the bed and glowered down at the engineer, hissing and baring his teeth as his ears flattened against the top of his head. "Commander Tucker," the captain said sharply, "I want you to get back to those repairs. And get a fresh uniform." Trip hesitated only an instant before silently stalking out of Sickbay. Once the engineer was gone Archer turned his full attention to his 'guest'. "What's your name?"

The warrior fixed a disdainful glare on the captain. "A name is an _important_ thing, a _sacred_ thing. Something not to be cast about carelessly, and certainly not to be disclosed to _savages_who lack the ability to comprehend the importance of such things. Despite the admirable qualities of a _few_ of your people you are still animals, creatures without honor. Those without honor cannot be trusted."

Archer returned the stern, unwavering stare with one of his own. "Well for right now we're _stuck_ with each other, whether we trust one another or not. I can understand your misgivings but we are _not_ your enemies. _My_ name is Captain Jonathan Archer. It would be helpful if I knew what to call _you_. So far the only suggestion I've gotten in _that_department came from Commander Tucker, but I'm not sure how appropriate it would be to keep calling you 'Snowball'. Unless of course that name is to your liking."

The G'l Benai stiffened, indignation radiating from him. "I am _Koshneer_ Third Tactical," the alien rumbled, glaring down into Archer's eyes. "And Ancestors willing, I shall be your executioner."

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	8. Chapter 8

_Author's note: While editing future chapters I had to come back to this one for reference and came to the awful realization that there were not only a couple glaring errors that I should have spotted before even posting but also a missing scene between Hoshi and Travis. My apologies for the errors as well as the delay in finding and correcting them._

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"Crewman," Ensign Rossini addressed Miranda quietly, "I'm here to relieve you." Atkinson nodded silently. "How is everyone?" he asked.

Stepping away from the foot of the alien's bed, Miranda tried to relax. "Lt. Reed is still out cold. His readings are stable right now but he's still having muscle tremors off and on. On the plus side, they were able to take advantage of him being unconscious and get pajamas on him so at least he's not lying there in just his skivvies.

"David's still in kinda rough shape. He's getting a transfusion now, but Phlox says he'll probably need at least a couple more units of blood. His breathing's improved," she observed, brightening slightly. "He's breathing almost entirely on his own now and might be able to get off the ventilator by this time tomorrow. But it'll still be a while before he can talk so Ensign Sato rigged a padd for him to use when he wakes up—he'll be able to enter what he wants to say and it'll talk for him. She used samples of his voice to program the thing, so it'll even sound like him. He kinda woke up a little while ago and we told him about it, but he faded back out pretty soon after so I don't know if he'll remember or not."

"He's gonna pull through, though…that's the important thing. And what about our furry friend?"

Atkinson glanced at the sleeping G'l Benai and scowled. "He's doing well. Doc says he seems to be recovering a bit faster than expected—something about his metabolism being different from ours. He _finally_ fell asleep a little while ago but only after chirping and chanting damned near nonstop for almost half an hour." She studied the readout of his vital signs. "Looks like he's in a pretty deep sleep right now, so he shouldn't cause any more trouble for a while."

"And how are _you_?" Rossini asked with concern.

"I'm fine," she replied too quickly.

"Miranda…I know what happened. What you had to do." Her shoulders drooped in silent response. "Must've been horrible," he added. After an uneasy silence he asked, "Wanna talk about it?"

She shook her head, still having trouble believing it had happened. "His hands were wrapped around Phlox's throat…I shot once, and it was like he hardly felt it. He looked right at me but it was like...it wasn't _him_. I mean…_you've_ seen him angry, right? I mean, _really_ pissed off?"

"Yeah. Not pretty."

"This was worse."

He shook his head. "Not possible, Randy."

"You didn't see him. His eyes were jet black, and they were like…an enraged wild animal's eyes. Like there wasn't any part of Lt. Reed in there at all. God, Keith, he was howling... snarling…_growling_.

"Phlox couldn't breathe and the lieutenant still wouldn't let go, so I fired again and his eyes…changed. He was looking right at me, and I saw his eyes, his face…change. I can't get it out of my mind...he was so confused and he looked…scared. I don't think he quite knew what had happened, but he knew he'd been shot and he knew I was the one that did it. He looked so _scared_."

Rossini gripped her shoulders reassuringly. "You did what you _had_ to do. Hell, the condition he was in he probably won't even _remember_ any of it."

"_I'll_ remember," she said sorrowfully.

"Yeah…I know. And _Phlox_ will remember, too. You said it yourself, Randy—the doc couldn't _breathe._ So it was a choice between shooting your CO—who was out of his everlovin' _mind_ at the time—or watching him strangle a man to death. Is there _any_ doubt in your mind that he was gonna kill the doctor?"

"No. And I know—at least, part of me knows—that I didn't have any other option. But knowing that doesn't make it any easier."

"Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm sure that if the roles had been reversed _he_ would have shot _you_."

A slow smile crept across Miranda's face. "Yeah…he would've, wouldn't he?"

"Oh _hell_ yes. In a heartbeat. Now, tell me about our fuzzy buddy. You said he was _chanting_?"

"Pretty much nonstop until he _finally_ fell asleep, thank God. Thought I would lose. My. Freaking. _Mind_."

"What was he saying?"

Atkinson shrugged. "Dunno…he'd turned off _his_ translator and _ours_ couldn't keep up with him. I gave a recording of it to Ensign Sato when she dropped off the padd for Dave, but if I had to make a guess I'd say maybe he was _praying_.

"Well, if I'd pissed off Lt. Reed as much as he did, I'd pray nonstop, too." Miranda chuckled, and then Keith laid a sympathetic hand on her shoulder. "You look beat, Randy. Go get some sleep."

She shook her head. "I'm gonna sit with David. Just for a little while," she assured him as he began to protest. "Then I'll go grab some sack time, I promise."

Both were startled by a faint, stifled moan from behind the curtain surrounding the lieutenant's bed. Atkinson took a step back but Rossini cautiously drew the curtain aside to silently study the form of their CO. Another groan spurred him forward; he motioned for Atkinson to follow. She lingered at the foot of the bed while he stood at the lieutenant's shoulder.

"Sir?" he whispered, hoping that the man wouldn't hear him.

Reed's eyelids flickered then opened with agonizing slowness, his unfocused, questioning gaze finally meeting the ensign's; though his pupils were still dilated his eyes finally showed some color. A single word forced through raw vocal cords whispered past his parched lips. "Saunders?"

Keith smiled. "He's unconscious but still with us, sir," he whispered back.

Reed licked his lips, eyes closing in grateful relief then opening to meet Rossini's again. "Tell Saunders…tell him…" Malcolm pushed the words out with difficulty, swallowing painfully before trying again. "Tell him...he did…a damn fine job."

"You'll be able to tell him soon enough, sir."

"Want him…to know _now_."

"Yes, sir. Atkinson was just going to pay him a visit—you'll pass along the lieutenant's message, right?" Miranda nodded wordlessly then slipped away, replaced almost immediately by the doctor.

A small smile flitted across the Denobulan's face. "I'll be with you momentarily," he told the lieutenant before disappearing behind the curtain surrounding the G'l Benai's bed.

"Go with him," Reed demanded as forcefully as his ruined voice would allow. "And _don't_ trust that hairy S.O.B. for one _second_." Acknowledging his instructions with a brisk nod the ensign went after the doctor as Malcolm wearily closed his eyes. Courtesy of whatever had been pumped into him by the behemoth in the next bed, all his senses remained on high alert: the lights made his eyes burn, his muscles ached from the punishment they'd endured, and the smell of hospital-grade antiseptics—distasteful even at its usually faint level—was almost nausea-inducing in its intensity. Each sound seemed amplified a hundredfold so not only were the sounds of the various medical devices assailing him but every footfall, whispered word, and even the sounds of Sickbay's resident menagerie (imperceptible to everyone else) flooded in on him. Every leaf being chewed and every fluttering wing seemed to reverberate in his ears, echoing painfully in his already-throbbing head. He could swear that somewhere in the din he had heard the osmotic eel belch.

Somehow Miranda's impossibly soft, trembling whisper pushed through the rest of the noise, drowning out even the deafening cadence of his own hammering heart. Though he felt guilty about eavesdropping there was nothing Malcolm could do to prevent it.

"Hey, David…it's Randy. I, uh…I can't stay too long 'cuz the doc wants you to get plenty of rest, but I wanted you to know that we're all thinking of you. Lt. Reed is here, in the next bed over, and he said to tell you that you did a damn fine job—that's a direct quote, Dave. I'm sure that as soon as Phlox has his back turned the lieutenant will be out of that bed and over here telling you himself…"

Hearing the doctor's approach Malcolm reluctantly opened his eyes, squinting against the light.

Phlox set a glass on the bedside table then checked the readouts from the biobed, smiling slightly. "Feeling any better, Lieutenant?" he asked quietly as he pulled a scanner from his pocket and began taking readings, still smiling.

Reed's eyes lingered on the bruised throat of the doctor. "Not really," he answered hoarsely. "My God, Phlox, I almost _killed_ you."

Phlox tucked the scanner back in his pocket then reclaimed the glass and held it out to his patient. "I brought you some ice chips—Ensign Cutler thought it might help soothe your throat." He paused. "How much do you remember?"

Malcolm sat up gingerly, trying to ignore the worst of the pain as well as the cast on his hand, and took the glass in his trembling hands. "_All_ of it. But it was as if I were standing in the corner watching someone else." His weak voice cracked as he fought to get the words out. "I saw myself…strangling you…the orderlies and Atkinson trying to pull me off…and Atkinson finally…stopping me." He raised the glass to his lips, still gripping it in both hands, and shook some ice into his mouth.

"To be perfectly honest, we were rather hoping you wouldn't remember too much about it." Seeing Malcolm's puzzled expression Phlox elaborated. "Crewman Atkinson and I. She still feels tremendously guilty about the method she employed to subdue you. And I'm concerned about the guilt _you_ feel about the…episode. Now, while I've thus far been unable to assuage Miranda's guilt I'd like to try to do something about _yours._

"_You_, my dear boy, were suffering from the effects of an alien stimulant. You had absolutely _no_ control over your actions and were _not_ responsible for what happened. You were quite simply pushed—physically, mentally, and emotionally—far beyond your endurance. If I had been able to find a safe way to neutralize the stimulant, or at least diminish its effects—"

"Now whoth feeling guilty?" Malcolm asked through a mouthful of ice, drawing a small chuckle from the doctor. He spit the ice back into the glass before continuing. "I just wish the furry bastard had given the stuff to me a little sooner."

"You can't possibly _mean_ that!"

Malcolm took a deep breath, reluctant to explain but feeling it necessary. "Doctor…the torpedoes that were fired at the ship…he dragged me into their Armoury and…forced me to fire them. I couldn't stop him. If I'd had that stimulant in me I'd have been better able to fight him off, but…" Reed's already weak voice trailed off as he fixed his eyes on his right hand. "How's _that_ for guilt, Phlox?" he finally added bitterly as he shifted his attention to the Denobulan. "All the damage the repair crews are trying to undo, all the injuries you've had to mend…my doing. Because I wasn't strong enough to fight him off."

"If I may be blunt, Lieutenant, you lacked the strength to continue fighting because you were perilously close to _dying_. You'd been beaten, stabbed and suffered severe internal injuries. As marvelously resilient as the human body is there are limits to how much punishment it can withstand, and you had simply reached that limit."

Reed sighed in response, raising the glass and again shaking some ice into his mouth. Rolling the rapidly-melting lump around with his tongue brought an odd sense of calm. His eyes closed in contentment. The cool liquid slid down his throat with surprising ease, bringing heavenly comfort as it chilled the raw, hypersensitive nerve endings all the way down. At last he'd found one part of his body that didn't hurt—or at least wouldn't hurt as much, so long as the supply of ice held out. He raised the glass again, not bothering to open his eyes as he deposited more ice onto his tongue.

"The tremors seem to be subsiding," Phlox observed. "I'm going to take that as a good sign."

"Mmm," his patient hummed noncommittally, unwilling to let his attention veer too far from the frozen ecstasy in his mouth. "Doth that mean," he asked without caring that his mouth was full, "dat you can gib me thumb-thing for the pain?"

"I'm afraid not," Phlox answered with regret. "The most recent blood sample I took showed that a significant amount of the stimulant is still present in your system." Malcolm's eyes slowly opened, pupils again unnaturally large, his dangerous glare unnerving the Denobulan. "Lieutenant, it would be unsafe to administer _anything_ to you at this point, whether it be an analgesic or a vitamin supplement. I just don't know what kind of interaction there might be."

Malcolm silently glowered at the doctor an instant longer then squeezed his eyes shut, his grip on the glass tightening. It was happening again. He could feel it. Unreasoning rage was building rapidly within him, exactly as it had just before…oh god...

Just before he'd tried to throttle Phlox.

Jaws clenched, heart hammering, breath coming more and more rapidly—any second he would feel himself disconnect as before, becoming a powerless observer to his own uncontrollable actions.

He had to regain control. Couldn't allow himself to let this…whatever it was…wash over him like that again. What had that oversized fleabag said? _'It takes a measure of discipline to prevent the animal mind from overpowering the rational mind.'_ Animal mind: at first blush an overly simplistic term, but terrifyingly accurate when experienced firsthand.

He could not lose control. No, amend that; he _would_ not lose control. What would his father think if he ever found out that his son had allowed some alien pharmaceutical to get the upper hand? Reed men were made of stronger stuff, so succumbing to these impulses simply was _not_ an option. Snowball would have to bloody well find his entertainment elsewhere.

_Snowball_. Good Lord. Commander Tucker had called the G'l Benai 'Snowball' and, amazingly, lived to tell the tale. The look of shock on the smug warrior's face had been gratifyingly hilarious; he'd looked as though he'd been smacked across the snout with a rolled-up newspaper. Swallowing the mouthful of now-melted ice Malcolm laughed aloud at the memory, opening his eyes in surprise as the rage and tension drained out of him.

A _very_ uneasy Denobulan was staring back at him.

"Lieutenant?"

"Something…happened," Reed replied, puzzled.

"You looked as though you were going to have another… outburst."

Looking down at the glass still in his hands, Malcolm pondered that. _'Outburst.'_ The doctor certainly was adept at tactful understatement. "Snowball," he said, unsuccessfully stifling a giggle as he looked at Phlox. He placed the glass on the table then swung his legs around so he was perched on the edge of the biobed, facing the nervous doctor.

"You _really_ should stay in bed, Lieutenant."

The words tumbled far too fast from Reed's mouth. "Yes, I am, I mean I will, I just…" _'Have to slow down. Maintain control. Take a deep breath.'_ "Sorry, Doctor…I just need to sit up for a bit. You're right about the, um, 'outburst'. I could feel it coming on and tried to rein it in. And then Commander Tucker calling him 'Snowball' popped into my head, and now…I'm fine." He giggled again then froze, eyes going wide as he gazed at Phlox. "No. Not fine," he corrected himself. "It's almost like I'm mildly drunk. I feel…giddy." Song lyrics danced unbidden through his mind. _'I feel giddy, oh so giddy, I feel giddy and witty and—'_

'_Stop that this __instant__!'_ he commanded himself. _'That's not even how that bloody song __goes__!'_ Rocking gently back and forth, he took another deep breath as he tried to steady his thoughts.

Phlox stood over him, scanner in hand. He carefully placed his other hand on Reed's shoulder to stop him rocking. "Your hormone levels were affected, so it's possible that the rapid changes in mood could be a result, or perhaps an indication that the drug's impact is lessening." Taking a long look into the lieutenant's eyes the doctor offered a smile. "If it makes you feel any better, your eyes appear almost normal. That would seem to be an encouraging sign. Lie back please," he instructed gently.

Amazingly, Malcolm complied without complaint. Almost. "May I at least sit up a _little_? It's more comfortable." The doctor nodded then adjusted the head of the bed to a semi-upright position. Malcolm reclaimed his glass from the table, intently studying its contents before plucking out a large chip of ice with his left hand and slipping it into his mouth. His hands barely trembled at all.

"I can bring more if you like," Phlox offered, motioning to the glass.

"Yeth, pleath. More eyeth would be nyeth." Despite the pain in his facial muscles he found himself grinning stupidly as the phrase _'More ice would be nice'_ began repeating rapidly in his mind. Phlox gave him a quizzical look but said nothing as he went for more ice. Reed closed his eyes.

'_Ice, ice, ice, more ice would be nice, twice the ice in a thrice.'_ His mind raced coming up with rhymes as the ice rapidly melted in his mouth. His first impulse was to try to stop until he realized that the rhyming was keeping the deafening sounds around him at bay. Letting his mind run amok with images of sliced spiced ice for mice playing dice with lice was preferable to the noise.

The doctor returned shortly, placing an insulated carafe on the table. "Would you like anything else?"

"No, thank you. Wait, yes," Malcolm corrected, suddenly somber. "I need to speak with Miranda." Seeing the 'no' forming on the doctor's face, Reed persisted. "It will only take a minute or two. Please…it's important. Very important, or I wouldn't ask. She's still with Saunders, isn't she?" Relenting, Phlox went to summon the crewman.

Malcolm silently lectured himself while the doctor was gone. _'There will be __no__ outbursts. No tantrums. No shouting, no screaming, and Absolutely __No __Giggling__. And for the love of God, please no __rhyming__. After all, you're not Dr. ruddy Seuss.'_

"You wanted to see me, sir?" Atkinson asked timidly, standing at attention at the foot of the bed. Reed motioned her closer; she reluctantly complied, moving to stand beside him, still at rigid attention and still looking terrified.

"At ease, Crewman." Though he was trying for a comforting tone his voice cracked and squeaked, embarrassing him into a crooked half-smile. "Well _that_ rang with authority, didn't it?" Some of the tension lifted and Atkinson returned the small smile. Awkward silence reigned briefly as Reed contemplated what he'd say. Knowing that the bridge crew had been privy to the events on the alien ship—and knowing how efficient the grapevine was on _Enterprise_—he was certain that by now everyone on board knew what had transpired on that 'battledeck', blow-for-blow. And if they didn't yet know what had happened in Sickbay they'd be brought up to speed soon enough.

At last he spoke, his voice ragged and husky. "It's been one hell of a day, hasn't it? And our Mr. Saunders certainly is full of surprises. Were you aware that he's claustrophobic?"

"Yes, sir, he told me not long after we met, while we at Starfleet."

"Mmm…remarkable job he did over on that ship. If he hadn't acted when he did I've no doubt I'd be dead now. How is he doing?"

"Still holding his own. He even came to a little while ago...just for a minute or so, but Hoshi and I got to talk to him before he dropped off again. We were trying to explain to him about using a padd to communicate instead of talking—Hoshi rigged one up for him. I _think_ he understood us. He's still out now...Phlox says that's best for him right now."

"Did you give him my message?"

"Yes, sir," she said quietly, determined to hold her emotions in check. "I'm not entirely sure he heard me, but I told him."

Malcolm nodded his approval, struggling to talk past the lump that had suddenly formed in his own throat. "Thank you. We'll tell him again later, just to be sure. He really did an exceptional job. Damn fine job." He fixed his eyes firmly on hers. "And so did you." He couldn't help smiling at the stunned expression on her face but grew serious as he continued. "I remember what happened, Miranda. I know I attacked Phlox, and I know that you…stopped me…before I did any lasting damage. It can't have been easy for you, and I wanted to thank you. You did very well."

"But sir, I—"

"_Shot_ me. Yes, I know," he croaked almost casually. "Not something I'd normally _encourage_, believe me. But you saved the doctor's life, and I'm certain no one who saw what happened has any doubt about that. There is no doubt in _my_ mind that you did the right thing, and I want to be certain that there's no doubt in _yours_.

"Phlox thinks that the worst may be over, so there _shouldn't_ be any repeats of what happened earlier, but if it _does_ happen again…" He paused, hating the very notion of it. "If someone's life is in danger because of me," he finally continued, motioning to the phase pistol in her holster, "then you'd bloody well _better _pull that trigger if that's what it takes to stop me. After you've exhausted all other options, of course," he added, near-normal blue-grey eyes twinkling.

She returned his smile. "Aye, sir."

"I promised Phlox that I'd only keep you a few minutes—I'm sure you must be knackered, and heaven knows _I_ am. One thing before you go, though…I'd like to go see Saunders but my legs aren't feeling overly cooperative at the moment. Would you pull the curtain aside for me, please?"

Atkinson balked. "Sir, I'm…not sure that would be a good idea at the moment. He's, um…not looking too good right now. It might be best to wait a while, sir."

Anger surged for a millisecond but Reed stifled it before replying. "I don't expect it's very pretty, Crewman. Nevertheless, I want to see him. I _need_ to see him, to see for myself…" His voice cracked but not entirely because of the damage to his vocal cords. "Atkinson, I _have_ to see him." _'I need to see that he's __really__ still alive.'_

"Sir, I understand. _Really_," she sympathized. "It's just that…well…it's the leech, sir. Or eel. Or whatever the hell it is. Phlox is, um...making use of it right now. Which is almost kinda funny—I mean, David was always—"

"None of that, Crewman," Reed scolded with mock sternness. "No referring to him in the past tense."

She chuckled nervously. "Huh. Didn't even realize I'd done it." She stared at the floor until Malcolm cleared his throat.

"You were going to tell me why Phlox using his private zoo on Saunders is…amusing."

"Oh. Right. Well, it's just that Dave's always had an interest in alternative medicines and such. Herbal remedies, homeopathy, stuff like that. I don't know _how_ many times I've seen him in the Mess Hall chatting with Phlox about which critters do what. Can't help but wonder if he'd still find it so fascinating if he could see one of those things plastered on him."

"Hmm. We'll just have to ask him when he wakes up, won't we? And I suppose you're right—I'll wait until the eel's done with him to pay a visit." There was a long silence as he decided what to say. "You, um…you and Saunders are…quite close, aren't you?"

Miranda looked stunned and a bit put out. "We're _friends_, yes," she answered coolly. "But I can assure you, sir, that there's nothing…unprofessional or…or romantic—"

Now it was Reed's turn to be taken aback. "Oh god…I didn't mean to imply…I just…oh, bloody hell," he murmured hoarsely, scrubbing his left hand tiredly over his face before looking at her again. "I apologize. It's just that…I know you've known each other since you went through Starfleet together. When he was in Sickbay after he had his fall I stopped in several times to check his progress. We had a chance for a few chats, and he spoke about you. And it's always been fairly obvious that you're quite fond of one another. He values your friendship quite highly, and I know you value his."

Atkinson's demeanor softened. "Yes, sir. We've been friends pretty much since the first time we met."

"He told me about his maternal grandparents during one of our visits but he never mentioned the rest of his family. I was hoping that perhaps you could...fill me in? His parents will need to be told about what's happened, and it might be helpful to know a little about them."

"You'd probably be better off just notifying his grandparents, sir—his mother and sister do a lot of traveling so I'm not sure how you'd get in touch with them, his brothers are both dead, and he hasn't had any contact with his father in ages. They don't exactly...get along."

"Mr. Saunders seems the sort that gets along with _everyone_," Reed observed, puzzled.

"I had the distinct misfortune of meeting his father _once_, and that was once too often. The man is an abusive, miserable S.O.B. who couldn't get along with _anyone_ for any length of time. I'm not sure that he was always _quite_ so intolerable but according to Dave even on his best day the man could make a Vulcan swear a blue streak. After meeting him, I believe it."

Now Malcolm's curiosity was thoroughly piqued. "May I ask how you met this memorable fellow?"

Cautiously settling into the chair beside the bed, Miranda gave a slow sigh. "Dave had invited me to his grandparents' place for a little downtime after our first quarter at Starfleet. It was just for a weekend but he wanted to go because his mom and sister Molly were going to be there for a visit at the same time. His father showed up Sunday afternoon looking for his wife. Turns out they'd split up quite some time before, and when the divorce was due to be finalized he decided to try again to get her to come back." She sighed again, pausing to gather her thoughts. "Things got very ugly very fast, and when he tried to drag her out the front door all hell broke loose. David and his father wound up in the front yard going at it tooth and nail—at first I was scared for Dave, what with his dad being so much bigger and being a former MACO, but it didn't take long for him to get the best of his old man and send him packing. Dave's the sort who'll put up with a lot of crap if you're dishing it out to _him_, but God help anyone who screws with his family or friends." Her eyes met Reed's, her gaze even. "I've seen the footage of the fight on the _Koshneer_, sir. What David did, and what happened to him. And I can tell you without any doubt that if he had it to do all over again, the only thing he'd do differently would be to get out from under that crate faster and hit that G'l Benai harder. I'd be willing to bet a year's salary that not being able to get that bastard off of you sooner will be his biggest regret. He's gonna blame himself for you getting hurt."

Reed looked toward Saunders' bed, considering the man behind the curtain and having a bit of trouble envisioning the man's father being even bigger than the tall, sturdy young man he'd come to know. Mentally replaying what had happened on the G'l Benai ship his brow furrowed. "If that's the case, he'll have it a bit backward. I'm his superior officer—_his_ safety was _my_ responsibility."

"He won't see it that way, sir," Atkinson insisted gently. "You were the one in trouble and he couldn't help you. Convincing him otherwise won't be easy."

"Why should things start getting easy now?" Malcolm quipped.

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When she'd first started on the recording Miranda had given her, Hoshi had been struck by the strange mix of ferocity and beauty in the sound and cadence of it. It was slightly different from the messages that _Koshneer_'s captain had sent out, owning no doubt to differences in dialect, but the longer she listened the more Hoshi realized that it was more than that. The transmissions between _Koshneer_ and _VekCha'a_ had been filled with formalized protocol. This, on the other hand, had an entirely different feel to it. He spoke slowly, choosing each word with great care and consideration. There was a still a formality to it, no doubt of that, but not a formality based on military protocol. What was it based on, then? She had her answer after translating the first sentence.

_"Ancestors help me, I beseech you."_ The passionate respectful formality of a prayer. As the translation progressed Hoshi made a stunning discovery: improbable as it seemed, the G'l Benai was afraid of them.

_"I am na'oosh tcha'a among savage enemies…"_ After struggling unsuccessfully with _na'oosh tcha'a_ she decided to come back to it later, surmising that there was perhaps no corresponding word or phrase in English. She'd gone through the Vulcan Database looking for information about their language; from the little that she'd found some G'l Benai words had more depth of meaning, conveying intricate concepts rather than a single word, so translating wasn't just a matter of simply figuring out nouns and verbs. Of course, the same was true of many languages, Earth languages included, so it wasn't unfamiliar territory for her. But the possibility that an incorrect translation could mean the difference between befriending their alien guest and being disemboweled by him definitely upped the ante.

The rest of the translation went quickly, the prayer of the alien making Hoshi's heart ache for him until she came to the very end of it. She hesitated only a second before contacting Captain Archer in his Ready Room.

"Sir…I've got something I think you should hear."

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_"Ancestors help me, I beseech you. Hear the petition of this your unworthy descendant. I am na'oosh tcha'a among savage enemies, armed only with the weapons bestowed upon me by nature. My wife and children have already made their way into your presence, slain by the soulless creatures in whose midst I am now trapped._

_"Ancestors, guide my wife and children to the warmth and safety of the Great Hall. Welcome them into your presence and watch over them in my absence, I implore you. The children are innocents, and their mother died trying to guide them safely away from our enemy as those honorless heathens attacked my captain's ship._

_"Guide also those others who were slain by our enemy. Welcome them into your midst and bestow upon them places of honor among you._

_"Ancestors, I your unworthy descendant would ask one among you to come to me in this, my time of utmost need. My uncle, brother of my father's father, who was summoned to the Great Hall during a hunt, who has guided me in times past, I seek your counsel now. In times past your wise voice has come to me, your hand once guiding me from the depths when I was a child, alone and drowning in the frozen ocean of our home province. Again I am alone, drowning among this enemy of our people. I beg you to guide me again, for I am lost among these strange animals and am afraid. Help me find my way._

_"You know already that they have attacked my captain's ship, have slain elders and children. They claim they have not done these things, that they wish to render aid. It confuses me, for why would an enemy render aid? Yet they have not slain me and I do not know why I yet live. I fear these beasts, my uncle. I fear that they seek to confuse me with deceptions and treachery, to steal from me my honor and my soul. Cherished Ancestor, brother of my father's father, venerated uncle, do not abandon me to these creatures, I plead with you. I am na'oosh tcha'a, lost among these aliens, injured and afraid. Guide me, Uncle, for my mind is clouded by uncertainty and I fear madness shall seize me._

_"As you once led me away from death beneath the ice of the province of our birth, guide me now. Fear clouds my soul and obscures my honor, making me unworthy to enter into the Great Hall. Grant me clarity of thought, I beg of you, that my soul and honor can be cleansed of their flaws so that I may dwell again with my family upon my death. Grant to me the strength to face my impending death at the hands of these creatures, that I may die honorably on my feet, with the blood of the enemy upon my lips. Guide my blade hand and do not let me falter."_

Archer shook his head as the recording ended. Despite the G'l Benai's earlier blustering and bravado, Atkinson had been right about him being afraid. The revelation did little to help matters—the alien was still convinced that he was in the midst of his enemies and he sounded determined to kill as many people as he could.

The warrior spoke of his soul and his honor almost as if the two were inseparable. When he spoke of death he sounded almost content with the thought of dying…it was losing his honor that had him scared, and Archer hadn't the faintest idea how to convince the man that neither his honor nor his life were in danger.

Pacing in his Ready Room, the captain's eyes fell upon the sword still on his desk and a horrible thought planted itself in his mind. _'I am na'oosh tcha'a among savage enemies, armed only with the weapons bestowed upon me by nature.'_ Though seldom stumped for long by foreign words and phrases, Hoshi had been forced to concede defeat on "na'oosh tcha'a". Lifting the heavy sword with great care, Jon studied the intricate patterns engraved on the blade and hilt—an inscription, according to Hoshi, though she hadn't had an opportunity to fully decipher it yet—before dismissing the idea of returning it to its owner. The possibility that the G'l Benai's fears would be allayed by such a gesture was far outweighed by the likelihood that the warrior would turn the weapon against them. He carefully put the sword back down.

Playing the recording again, Archer pondered the focus on honor. The alien had called them savage, soulless animals…honorless heathens…beasts. And he was worried about repairing his own damaged honor. "So all _I_ have to do," Jon muttered sarcastically to himself as he resumed his pacing, "is convince him that his honor isn't in any danger _and_ prove that we _aren't_ soulless, honorless animals. Great." Ever since they'd left dry dock he'd found himself acting as a diplomat almost as often as he got to be a captain. He'd known that his mission would often require delicate negotiations with other cultures but despite his training he'd never felt that diplomacy was his strong suit. How was he supposed to convince this pissed-off warrior that the people around him weren't enemies, that they were trying to help, and that Humans, too, were capable of honorable behavior?

'Of course, it would help if he knew what kind of code of honor the G'l Benai people _had_. On that topic, though, Archer was at a loss. Well, except for the whole 'kill your enemies or die trying' creed so adeptly demonstrated by their large, furry guest. He dropped into his chair with a sigh. Reaching for the comm button, he hesitated—he'd been about to call T'Pol but she was still helping Trip with repairs. With heaven only knew how many G'l Benai ships likely heading their way and no idea when they'd show up, he was pretty sure he didn't have time to wade through the Vulcan Database blindly searching for information on the subject. Thinking it over a minute a slow smile of inspiration crept across his face; though he hated to interrupt her meal he tapped the button to contact the one person who'd already combed through the Database looking for anything that would help them communicate with their guest. "Ensign Sato… please report to my Ready Room. And if you've made any notes on the G'l Benai, bring them with you." '

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Most of the time Hoshi loved her job. But right now, frankly, it sucked. She paused the video she'd been watching in her efforts to glean samples of the G'l Benai language for the UT, dropping the padd onto the Mess Hall table alongside the three other padds, empty coffee cup, and ignored sandwich in front of her. A real, honest-to-god break would be fabulous right about now but she'd have to settle for another cup of extra-strong coffee and promise herself a few extra pieces of chocolate when this as all over with and she was relaxing in her quarters. Or maybe if she really poured on the charm she could wheedle some chocolate cheesecake out of Chef. Closing her eyes she allowed herself the luxury of a satisfied sigh: she was definitely going to go for the cheesecake.

For right now, though, she had to finish getting a working translation algorithm for the G'l Benai language, preferably before a couple dozen of their ships showed up and started blowing holes in _Enterprise_'s hull. The warrior's prayer in Sickbay—which the captain was still reviewing in his Ready Room—had been immensely helpful but for a more complete, precise translation program to offer to the UT she needed more material. Samples in the Vulcan Database were limited; they'd apparently been sufficiently spooked by their encounter with the warrior race to curtail any further contact with them. The boarding party's visit to _Koshneer_'s bridge hadn't yielded enough information to be helpful since, after Malcolm's mishap with the tactical station, accessing the computer had—justifiably—been deemed imprudent. That left one other source of a great deal of G'l Benai dialog: the video of the soldier's attack on Malcolm and David.

It had been bad enough watching helplessly from the G'l Benai bridge as it had happened; between filtering out extraneous sounds and separating out what the alien had been saying from what his translator had been relaying, this made the fourth time she'd viewed the attack. She'd found that skipping over the parts where the warrior wasn't talking didn't make the viewing much easier, but at least it trimmed a few minutes off the experience. Still, by the time she got it all into the UT and ran it against what had come out of the G'l Benai's translator, she'd likely have to watch it another two or three times. Then of course she'd take a programmed UT to Sickbay so she could try it out on their guest. The soldier had looked intimidating even when asleep: she shuddered to think what he'd be like when he woke up.

Mentally scolding herself for dawdling Hoshi pushed back from the table. She grabbed her cup and hustled across the empty room to the beverage dispenser for more coffee then hastened to settle back into her seat and braced for another viewing of the video. Just as she reached for the padd the doors hissed open; Ensign Mayweather tentatively entered the Mess Hall and approached her. Usually she'd have loved a visit with him, but this wasn't a good time for reminiscences about the boomer life.

She held up a preemptive hand. "I'm sorry, Travis, I'd love to visit but I have to concentrate on this right now."

"I know. That's, uh…that's why I came to find you. I didn't know if it would help or not, but…here." He thrust a padd toward her. "It's, um, kind of a diary. From when I was a kid on the _Horizon_." He licked his lips nervously. "From when we encountered some G'l Benai."

If she hadn't been sitting she would have fallen over. "You've met these people before? And you didn't _say_ anything?!"

Travis put the padd on the table and sank into the chair across from her. "After Subcommander T'Pol showed us that vid I didn't think I could really add anything useful. Besides, when she told Captain Archer it was a bad idea to come here he didn't listen to her. And when he blew off Lt. Reed's objections…I mean, c'mon, he's a lieutenant _and_ tactical officer, and I'm just an _ensign_. If the captain doesn't listen to _him_, is he really gonna listen to _me_?" He paused, uncomfortable with her eyes on him. "I admit I didn't learn a lot about their _language_—they weren't exactly paying us a social call—but I picked up information about their mannerisms and how they interacted with each other, and with us. Didn't know if that would help you or not, but I dug this out of storage so you could take a look at it. If you think it'll help."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" she squeaked as she eagerly snatched up the padd and started reading. "I'll take anything I can get. A lot of times mannerisms and gestures are an integral part of a language. Plus if we know how they interact with each other it might help us know a little bit about how _we_ should act around them." She paused in her reading and looked at the young man. "How did you guys wind up in G'l Benai territory, anyhow?"

Usually Travis would visibly relax and become cheery at the chance to share tales of his youth, but not this time. He straightened in his seat and took a deep breath. "We were having trouble with the engines and had to take them offline for repairs. Apparently we drifted across the G'l Benai border…didn't know it had happened until they started materializing on the ship."

"Oh god," Hoshi whispered, remembering the scene on the Vulcan ship as the warriors had beamed aboard. The image of Travis as a child, confronted by one of the sword-wielding behemoths, sprang to her mind. "What…what happened?"

"Thankfully it wasn't like when they went after the Vulcans—I guess since our engines were down they figured out that we weren't much of a threat. But it was still plenty scary having a bunch of rifle-toting cat people in full battle armor suddenly appearing all over the ship. I was on the bridge with my dad when they boarded us. Nobody moved…we just kinda stared at them. I mean, we were so surprised at them just popping up from nowhere like that." His brow furrowed. "That's probably the only reason they didn't attack any of us, 'cuz we didn't resist them." Finally he relaxed a little. "Dad stood up real slow, told them he was the captain and asked," Travis chuckled at the memory, "he asked them if there was something he could help them with. We're sitting there dead in the water, hanging nose-to-nose with a G'l Benai warship, with half a dozen armed soldiers on the bridge and over 50 more of them throughout the ship, all of them with rifles drawn, we're totally helpless and we've got _nothing_ to offer them, and Dad asks if _they_ need any help.

"Their captain orders one of his soldiers to access the computer. I _think_ it was a woman but it was hard to tell with all that armor. Anyhow, their captain steps up to Dad and says we're violating G'l Benai territory, demands to know why we're there, lets us all know in no uncertain terms what'll happen if they decide that our intentions are hostile…and Dad just _stands_ there, cool as a winter's day. Their captain gets through and Dad just says, 'I'm sure you've already scanned our ship, and if you have you know that our engines are offline. Apparently we've drifted into your territory, and I sincerely apologize for that. It was not our intention to intrude upon or offend your people. All we want to do is fix our engines and finish making our delivery. If it will help ease your concerns, I welcome you to be our guests while we finish making repairs.' Then he asks for permission to address the rest of the crew and let them know what's going on, so he can tell them that the G'l Benai are guests and to not start any trouble with them." Travis shook his head. "On his own ship, he asks _permission_. My brother got so mad he started to mouth off, but at least he was smart enough to pipe down when Dad told him to shut up.

"I wasn't too happy about it, either, but I figured it was best to follow Dad's lead—if he could keep calm and be so polite to these people, so could the rest of us. So that's what we did…and I'm sure that's what kept us in one piece. Once they'd copied our ship's records and their captain looked them over he sent almost all the troops back to their own ship and accepted Dad's 'invitation' to stick around. Dad even gave him a full tour of the ship…the soldiers didn't seem too impressed, but their captain showed a real interest in our operations. Even had some of his crew pitch in to help with things. The way he explained it, the sooner we finished repairs the sooner we could get out of their territory and the sooner he could get back to his routine. That's how I got to see them in a little more of what I guess you could call a social setting—they were on board for a couple days. A few of them even relaxed…well, as much as they could, I guess."

"You should have told the captain," she told him. "You should _still_ tell him. He _does_ listen to what Malcolm and T'Pol tell him, you know, even if he doesn't always follow their advice. And he'll listen to you, too. Damn, Travis, aside from T'Pol you're the only one of us that's already been _out_ here." She turned her attention back to the padd, ravenously reading Travis' logbook; if the rest was as informative as the beginning she might even share her much-desired cheesecake with the helmsman.

"I know, you're right," Travis admitted. "I guess part of me just wanted to forget about it. I mean, we made out okay for the most part, but it got kinda ugly just before they left."

Hoshi's head popped up. "Ugly how?"

Before Travis could answer the comm chirped. "Ensign Sato," Captain Archer's voice came over the Mess Hall comm speaker, "please report to my Ready Room. And if you've made any notes on the G'l Benai, bring them with you."

Standing, Hoshi gathered her padds and headed for the door; halfway there she turned to Travis. "Don't just sit there…you're coming with me. You can finish telling me what happened on the way, then you can help me brief the captain."

"But…but—"

"I'm supposed to bring any notes on the G'l Benai, and right now that includes you. Plus, it'll give you a chance to come clean to Captain Archer."

_'I hate it when she's right.'_ Mayweather heaved a sigh and stood, heading out the door with her.

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_"What manner of mischief have you gotten yourself into now, Thelik?" The warrior respectfully bowed his head, dropping to one knee and lowering his gaze until a large hand gripped his shoulder. "Speak my nephew, firstborn of my brother's firstborn. What do you seek from me?"_

_The knowledge that he was dreaming couldn't diminish his relief at seeing his uncle standing before him, amid the swirling snows of their home province. No, better than a mere dream—The Ancestors had granted his request and had allowed him an audience with his uncle! Rising, he threw his arms around the man and gave him a firm hug before stepping back. "Uncle, you know all that has happened. Your voice encouraged me as we fired on our attacker's vessel, and again as I protected my captain's ship and the fallen within from the invaders."_

_His uncle nodded, a tiny smile twitching at his lips. "Mine was not the only voice though, was it? Your battle-brother, and the others who lost their feet on your captain's ship…they also offered encouragement and suggestions. It was your battle-brother who suggested using the stimulant on the Human, wasn't it? So why seek __my__ advice now? Why not one of __them__?"_

_"Have I so angered you, cherished uncle, that you will not aid me in this time of crisis? Has my honor perished already? If this is so then I am truly na'oosh tcha'a and am unworthy to be in your presence. All hope is dead, my soul has perished before these dishonorable creatures."_

_Still smiling with affection his uncle shook his head. "No child—there is no anger toward you. All you have done to defend those in your care has been proper. I am merely curious about your need for my help. You are an experienced warrior while in my life I was only a civilian, a mere scholar."_

_Thelik shook his head. "What intellect I have threatens to flee from me, Uncle. These creatures' behavior is beyond my ability to comprehend. I have only a warrior's training—I know how to react to attacks, how to slay my enemies, how to obey my captain. But I do not know how best to deal with these creatures. One group attacks, and the next claims to offer aid. They tend my wounds but rejoice at the murder of innocents and elders. There are too many contradictions. How do I discern what is truth and what is treachery?"_

_Uncle's brow creased as he pondered his nephew's situation. "Mmm…a predicament indeed. Will you be believing a deception or disbelieving a truth? __Not an enviable position, my nephew. They offered assistance while aboard your captain's ship, correct?" Thelik nodded, and his uncle continued. "Of course, you acted properly in not believing them __then__—an enemy will use any means to save their life and take yours. But it __is__ intriguing that even now they tend your injuries, making no effort to cage or shackle you. And their concern __seems__ genuine, does it not?" He crouched, staring at the ground, drawing in __the snow with his finger. Thelik hunkered in front of his elder and watched the random patterns grow, patiently waiting for what seemed a lifetime. His earliest memories of his uncle were of the man doing precisely this: no matter how heated the debate, Uncle would simply crouch amidst the other adults who had come seeking his counsel and calmly write in the snow as he considered the various options before him. Having watched such consultations countless times, Thelik knew that the best course of action was to stay silent and simply wait—during his life, Uncle had always dealt with interruptions by withholding a response even longer. There was no reason to believe that death would have changed that._

_An eternity seemed to pass before the finger slowed, then stopped. Bringing his head up Uncle blinked thoughtfully at his nephew. "When you were protecting your captain's ship you could not risk believing them, for there was no way to prove or disprove their words. You have an opportunity now that was not available to you then. Speak with these creatures. Question them; analyze their actions as well as their words. Without the fury and distraction of battle it may be possible to more easily determine their true plans and motives. You should speak with one of them. Learn from them what you need to know. And remember that deception has a unique scent that you could not discern on your captain's ship. If their intentions are dishonorable their scent will betray them. You will know then that your fears are justified and you must kill as many of them as you can lay hands on._

_"But first you must discover what is in their hearts. If they truly __are__ enemies then their lives are rightfully forfeit. But what if their words are __true__, my nephew? Perhaps they have realized their transgression and seek to regain their honor."_

_"Animals __have__ no honor," Thelik snorted indignantly. "One cannot __regain__ what one has never __possessed__."_

_"There was a time when the G'l Benai were honorless animals as well," his elder patiently reminded him. "We did not simply awaken one day to find honor had been __bestowed__ upon us—it grew slowly within us, and not all succeeded in nurturing it within themselves. Even now there are times when we falter and either cast our honor aside or risk having it slip away from us. Perhaps it is the same with these Human creatures as well. You will not find the answers to your questions if you do not __seek__ them." Seeing the doubt in his nephew's eyes, he pressed his case. "Those you battled on your captain's ship showed a great measure of courage and honor, did they not? Surely that should count in their favor. "_

_A long, heaving sigh slipped through the younger man's lips as he pondered his uncle's advice and thought back to his encounter with the invaders. It was almost physically painful to admit it but they __had__ fought well. The larger man had been fearless and unrelenting in his defense of his superior, and the little man's slight build had belied the strength and tenacity contained within. Thelik nodded at last, resigned to the task he now faced. "It will __have__ to be one of the ones I battled on my captain's ship," he grudgingly agreed. "They __did__ show courage and honor, as you have said."_

_Uncle grinned broadly as he stood. "Better to speak with the one called Crew-man. The smaller one—Loo-ten-ant, isn't it?—is quite annoyed with you at present."_

_Nodding, Thelik rose. "With good reason. I promised him a quick death, which has been denied him. That alone is cause enough for him to hate me." Remembering Loo-ten-ant's enduring defiance both in the corridor when he had demanded to be killed and later in the weapons room left the warrior feeling a growing respect and admiration for the fierce little man. "He faced death bravely but my actions deprived him of the opportunity to go to his ancestors. And in the weapons room, just before his shipmates gained entry, he regained his feet and easily took me off mine. It shames me that I allowed instinct to guide my actions—I pushed him away when I should have allowed him to kill me. To have died by his hand would have been a great honor, even if I had died on my back."_

_"Indeed…to die at the hands of a worthy opponent is no disgrace," his uncle agreed solemnly. "Such a death, especially in defense of the fallen, would have assured your entry into the Great Hall."_

_After a long silence Thelik spoke again. "I would ask another question, if I may. I know what I must do if they are deceiving me, but…if I have erred and their intentions are indeed honorable…will all hope be lost to me?"_

_"I am unsure," Uncle replied. "That will depend upon how you display your repentance. You are a G'l Benai, and a warrior. Would you be able to simply __allow__ these aliens to slay you? Offer no resistance to them? Or would your training and instincts cause you to struggle against the deathblow, as you did upon your captain's ship? And if they decide to punish you in some other manner—with cage and shackles, perhaps—will you be able to accept and endure it? "_

_Thelik remained silent a long time as he pondered his response. "If I have erred," he finally answered, "then I must accept the consequences in order to regain my honor. I will do what I must to be with my family again. If captivity is to be my fate…I shall endure as long as possible." Uncle nodded his approval as he faded into the blowing, swirling snows. As Thelik felt himself waking he called out, desperate. "My wife and children—watch over them for me until my arrival!" Uncle smiled and nodded again before vanishing._

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Staring bleary-eyed at the ceiling, the only two things that a semiconscious David Saunders knew with any certainty was that he was in Sickbay, and trying to remember what had happened was bloody well exhausting. His last clear memory was of helping an EV-suited Lieutenant Reed prepare to rappel down a turbolift shaft. Beyond that, indistinct images fluttered elusively at the edge of his mind: the lieutenant (still wearing an EV suit) laughing good-naturedly and saying "You don't know me as well as you think", fuzzy, distressed voices calling to him from a million miles away, Phlox in surgical garb studying him with urgent concern, and an overly-sympathetic Hoshi showing him a padd while Randy held his hand and hovered protectively over him.

It was obvious that he was in Sickbay not only from the antiseptic smell and muted sounds of the monitors but also from the breathing tube he could feel in his throat and the fact that he could barely move his head. For a fraction of a second he wondered if there was anyone else there and where _they_ might have tubes stuck into them. Giving a brief look at the curtains surrounding the bed he closed his eyes, deciding that he didn't care if there was anyone there or not. Even if anyone _was_ there, it wasn't as though he could ask what the bloody blue hell had happened to him with a tube stuck down his throat. Better to mentally work his way backward to how he'd wound up here instead. Something must have happened but he hadn't a clue what it was. Whatever it was, though, it had apparently been bad judging from the expression on Randy's face when she'd been there earlier.

Okay…so what _was_ the most recent thing he remembered? He vaguely recalled hearing Randy's voice saying something about Lieutenant Reed and a damned fine job…sometime before that Hoshi and Randy had been for a visit, and Hoshi had been showing him something on a padd. Though their lips had been moving and he'd heard their voices, he couldn't for the life of him recall what they'd been saying. Something about talking—that amused him for a moment, the idea of them talking about talking—and the padd had seemed important to them. The image of Phlox looking ready for surgery popped up again, and David remembered the hiss of a hypospray. And before that…before that?

_"Shit and molasses, why can't I re__mem__ber?"_ With some of the drugs Phlox made use of it made sense to not remember stuff from _after_ the hypospray, but why couldn't he remember what had happened _before_? Obviously _something_ had happened or he wouldn't _be_ here. _"Sod it,"_ he decided after trying a few more minutes to recall anything about how he'd wound up in Sickbay; probably better to redirect his energy toward ignoring the dull thudding sensation in his legs and the odd numbness in his throat and left side of his face. He'd just begun to doze off when his mind returned to the lieutenant. Why would they have been rappelling down a turbolift shaft? Had he wound up in Sickbay because he'd fallen? No, he couldn't have fallen because he was still alive. They'd been so far up, and there'd been so much debris at the bottom of the shaft…debris and…bodies.

The memories slammed into place all at once: the G'l Benai ship, the doors slamming shut behind them, that _thing_ coming out of nowhere and attacking the lieutenant, and him pinned under that damned storage case just watching as Reed bore the brunt of the alien's wrath.

He'd finally gained enough leverage to shove the trunk off his legs and gotten his phase pistol in hand; after a few useless shots he'd regained enough sensation in his legs to risk standing then grabbed the first thing he laid hands on to use as a cudgel. If the phase pistol hadn't gotten the creature's attention, he'd reasoned, maybe a few pats alongside the head with a metal beam _would_. Ignoring the annoying hiss in his ears he'd advanced, and damned if the beam wasn't the most effective thing to use against the beastie.

The memories blurred a little at that point, though he recalled helping Reed off the floor and handing off his phase pistol. Keeping the alien at bay with the pistol, the lieutenant told him to get the bay doors open so he'd retrieved the beam to use as a lever and set to work. He'd tried to keep an eye on the alien and his CO but the doors had gone off track and demanded more attention than he'd anticipated; only when Reed screamed and the alien roared did he tear his attention from his task. The lieutenant was falling, a knife protruding from his arm, the alien advancing with its intentions painfully clear, and David had felt a surge of rage. No way was that great beastie getting his grubby paws on the lieutenant. Swinging with all his might he'd planted the beam firmly in the alien's belly then stepped between the two men to make himself the sole target of the creature's ire. He'd heard Reed's admonition—"Watch yourself, Saunders"—the G'l Benai had advanced and he'd started swinging the beam, landing solid blows each time until the creature's faceplate had flown open. And then…

_'Oh god. Oh my dear god.'_ Memory of the pain flooded back and he didn't want to remember anything more, but the memories would not be stopped. The expression on the alien's face had been almost gleeful and had frozen him in place. Teeth tore into him and the creature had let out a low growl of satisfaction that had resonated through his entire body. He'd felt himself go limp, almost but not quite unconscious, and the giant had let him drop to the deck. He thought he heard a phase pistol firing, someone or something bellowing like an enraged bull moose, the G'l Benai's voice said something that he couldn't discern, and all he could think of through the excruciating pain was that he'd let the lieutenant down. His CO was injured and unarmed and there was nothing he could do to protect him now. He'd failed: Lt. Reed was about to be killed and it would be his fault.

He'd lain there without even enough strength to open his eyes, the sounds around him fading in and out as the pain alternately flared and dimmed, annoyed that there was something soft but unyielding pressing against his throat preventing him from moving his head. He wanted to lift his head, wanted to open his eyes, he _had_ to help the lieutenant, dammit! But his limbs would not obey; even his eyelids rebelled against his command to open until he'd heard Commander Tucker's voice calling urgently to him. They had opened then, just a bit and only briefly, but enough to let him see the engineer's pale face looking back at him through an EV helmet faceplate. The commander's eyes had filled with fear and concern then surprise as he'd called out to an unseen someone, "He's alive!" before instructing him, "Stay with me, Saunders. You hear me? Don't you _dare_ give up now." It would have been poor form to disobey.

And now he was here, in Sickbay, and Lt. Reed was…oh god. He couldn't _possibly_ still be _alive_, could he? Randy had tried to tell him something about their CO but damned if he could clearly recall what she'd said. As determined as that G'l Benai had been to kill him, there was no way Malcolm Reed could still be alive.

Well, David decided, he just had to _find_ him, that's all there was to it. He had to find the lieutenant, had to find out one way or the other what had become of his commanding officer. He roused all his strength and opened his eyes, determined to get the bloody blue hell out of bed and find Reed. Two eyes stared back, one jade-green and the other sapphire-blue.

If not for the tube in his throat he would have screamed.

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_He hated 'grown-up' parties, and this one was no different. Being dressed in the uncomfortable dress suit, surrounded by a roomful of adults, watching them slowly but steadily getting drunk out of their skulls was certainly not Malcolm's idea of a fun time. Add to that the fact that he was the only child there, and that he was only there so his father could show the other adults what a well-mannered, obedient boy Malcolm had been trained to be and, well…frankly, it made Malcolm feel like some sort of circus animal. __See the amazing Reed boy jump through hoops! See how well he says 'please sir' and 'thank you sir' and 'yes sir'! See him sit up and beg and fetch and roll over!__ Through it all, the only trick he would like to show them was playing dead._

_And why did these parties always seem to last __forever__? There had been plenty of times when he would have __liked__ to stay up past his bedtime to play, or even just to read, only to be told that he had to go to bed because little boys needed to get a good night's sleep. It hardly seemed fair that he could only stay up late when his parents deemed it convenient for __them__. Especially when there were so many extra rules to be remembered during these things. At the same time he was supposed to be showing everyone what a well-trained boy he was, he was also supposed to stay out from underfoot, stay out of trouble, don't get dirty, don't speak unless spoken to, don't touch anything, do what you're told, and for goodness sake don't drink the punch._

_That last one was usually the hardest because at some point during the course of these parties one adult or another (almost always one of the men, and usually the drunkest person in the room) would invariably decide (once Stuart and Mary were out of sight) that it would be cute to fetch the little Reed boy a drink. And of course he couldn't refuse to drink it because you're always supposed to obey the grown-ups, even when they aren't acting very grown-up at all. So he would obediently drink, the adults would all have a hearty laugh at the funny faces he'd make, then he'd usually wind up spilling some of the noxious liquid either on the floor or himself, or he'd retch and throw up what he'd swallowed. No matter which occurred, it meant a trip to his father's study the next day for a lecture on how Reed Men are expected to conduct themselves during social gatherings._

_Needless to say, he was most assuredly __not__ looking forward to the New Years' dinner party he was being dragged to. And there were extra rules in addition to all the others, because the party was being given by some friend of his father, a fellow Royal Navy Man, and the fellow was celebrating not only the New Year but also his recent promotion. Plus the man was "well-to-do" to begin with, which meant he had a lot of fancy expensive stuff in his house that Malcolm absolutely __must__ be careful of. And above all the man had a wife that, for reasons unknown to Malcolm, must not be provoked. His father had made that point several times—it was apparently even more important that "don't drink the punch" since __that__ rule didn't even get __mentioned__ this time. __'Remember, Malcolm, you mustn't provoke Mrs. Berrington.'_

_Malcolm surmised that perhaps the woman didn't like little boys and had so thoroughly convinced himself of this that by the night of the party he was a nervous wreck, certain that the woman hated children and would find some reason to be 'provoked' with him. He was terrified to even walk through the front door but managed it: Reed Men, after all, don't show fear, even if the youngest Reed Man expected Mrs. Berrington to have long fangs and a penchant for roasting children on a spit; from snippets he'd overheard from his parents and the innumerable warnings about provoking her, he'd half-expected to see one of the neighborhood boys served as the main course, complete with an apple stuffed in his mouth. It was with immense relief that he saw nothing resembling that on the dining table._

_He was introduced to Mr. Berrington—who insisted that ranks not be used at the party—without incident then set about dutifully obeying the Rules of Conduct for Young Reed Men Whilst At Fancy Dinner Parties. He stayed out from underfoot, said nothing without first being prompted, and remained meticulously tidy. After dinner (which he spent studiously avoiding direct eye contact with the adults) he stood almost unmoving in a corner for a good part of the festivities so as not to touch or break anything in the_ _opulently-appointed_ _home and to avoid provoking Mrs. Berrington, whom he had not yet been introduced to. Maybe, he hoped, she'd decided that she didn't want to come. Maybe she'd heard there was going to be a little boy there and decided that she didn't want to spend her time around some vulgar little urchin._

_A hand on his shoulder startled him into looking up from the floor. He looked up into the face of a slight, pretty woman with blue eyes and flowing brilliant red hair; he didn't remember seeing her during the meal. Though she was taller than he was, he noticed how much shorter she was than the other adults. She smiled warmly down at him, her beige gown rustling faintly as she moved._

"_Whatcha hidin' in the corner for, little fella?" she asked, her accent decidedly Irish. Unable to find his voice Malcolm shrugged, hoping his fear didn't show. The woman laughed softly._

"_Well, ya __do__ know this is a __party__, dontcha?" Malcolm nodded._

"_Yes, ma'am." This was more attention than he was accustomed to receiving at these functions, and he felt uneasy._

"_Well, if y'll pardon me sayin', ya don't seem to be havin' a very good time. Are ya feelin' all right?"_

"_Yes, ma'am. I'm fine," he said, staring back down at the floor._

"_But yer just standin' here," she said gently, "like yer hidin' from th' world. Why dontcha come on out and join the festivities?"_

"_I'm supposed to stay out of trouble and not get in the way, ma'am," he finally admitted._

"_Not much sense in goin' to a party if yer not gonna have __fun__, my little lamb." He looked up, unsure if 'little lamb' was meant to be demeaning. From the kind look on her face, he decided it wasn't. "What's yer name, boy-o?" she asked._

"_Malcolm Reed, ma'am," he replied, standing very straight._

"_It's a pleasure to meet you, Malcolm. I'm Colleen," she introduced herself, extending a dainty hand and giving a small curtsy as Malcolm took her fingers in his small hand. "Not much fer fancy parties, are ya?" Unsure whether honesty would be best, he shrugged noncommittally. Her smile broadened. _"_Awf'lly stiff and formal affairs sometimes," she observed with a look around the room. "An' they can be so __boooring__. Still, no sense just standin' here looking' like yer waitin' fer the firin' squad." Her voice suddenly took on a formal yet still pleasant tone. "Wouldja be willin' ta do me the kindness of escortin' me to the punch bowl?" Malcolm cringed mentally yet nodded, knowing that saying 'no' to an adult was not an option. Best to just brace himself for this nasty part of the ritual and hope for the best. _

_There were two huge crystal punch bowls on the beverage table, one clear and the other cranberry red. Each had matching glasses and signs secured to them; the red bowl was labeled "Tis" and the other labeled "Tisn't"._

"_I'm gonna guess that you're not a big drinker, Malcolm," Colleen chuckled lightly, ladling liquid from the clear bowl into a crystal cup and handing it to Malcolm before serving up one for herself. "I don't often care for the stuff either. Sometimes a little brandy is nice, and to be honest," she added, whispering conspiratorially, "I have been known to enjoy an occasional wee small bit of bourbon. But I find excessive drunkenness to be distasteful, especially in public." She guided him away from the punch table, finding seats for them. The two sat quietly listening to the soft background music and watching the chattering partygoers milling about._

_"Ah…this is quite nice," Colleen said after a bit. "I didn't go to many parties growin' up, an' I guess I never really got the hang of all the fancy stuff. What about you, Malcolm? You go to many-a these sorta things?"_

_Malcolm considered his answer before speaking. _"_Not a __lot__, ma'am, but I've been to a few."_

_She looked at him with kind eyes. _"_Is somethin' wrong with yer punch? You haven't had even a sip of it."_

_He'd hoped she wouldn't notice. _"_No ma'am, nothing's wrong," he replied nervously. She kept looking at him, and he knew that he'd have to finally drink the vile stuff. It made him a little sad: she hadn't seemed the sort who would take pleasure in playing such tricks. Served him right—he should have found a better hiding place. Trying to keep his face from scrunching up, he took a tiny sip of the punch. And was surprised by the pleasant flavor of the liquid. He heard her chuckle and looked over at her._

"_Fer a second there, you looked like you were drinkin' poison at gunpoint, lad. Are ya all right?"_

"_Yes, ma'am. It's just…most of the punch I've had at parties didn't…taste very good, and it smelled funny. But this tastes very good," he hastened to add._

_The slight hint of a frown crossed the woman's face then disappeared. _"_Would you hold my glass and wait here for just a wee bit, Malcolm?" He nodded and she rose, gliding back to the punch bowls and returning with a fresh glass in her hands. _"_Now don't __drink__ this, lad, just smell it and tell me if it smells anythin' like the stuff you've had before, okay?"_

_Well __this__ was a new game. Malcolm obediently sniffed the beverage, his nose reflexively wrinkling in distaste. _"_Yes ma'am," he answered, perplexed._

_Colleen nodded and returned to the punch bowls, leaving the glass next to the red bowl. When she returned to her seat she reclaimed her own glass from Malcolm and gazed thoughtfully at the boy a long while before speaking. _"_Well, if ya didn't like the __taste__ of it those other times, why'dja __drink__ it?"_

"_Because the grown-ups that gave it to me said to. Children are supposed to do what grown-ups tell them to."_

_Draping an arm over his shoulder, she gently pulled the boy close to her. _"_I think it was very __mean__ of them to give you a drink that tasted bad and expect you to drink it," she told him. "If anyone tries that with you __here__, you have my permission to tell them 'no' and you be sure ta tell'em that Colleen says ya don't hafta drink it. And if you wanna help yourself to more punch, you be sure to get it from the __clear __bowl, understand? The one marked 'Tisn't'." Malcolm nodded solemnly. He couldn't ever remember being given permission to refuse an adult's commands. He was really beginning to like this lady._

_They sipped at their drinks as the woman engaged the shy boy in conversation, asking about his family, hobbies, and school. In return she told him that she was married and had a daughter several years his senior. She started to say something else but then stopped, a brief instant of melancholy crossing her face before she smilingly changed the subject back to him._

_It took a while for Malcolm to realize that he was, for the first time, fully enjoying one of his parents' parties. When their glasses were empty Malcolm enthusiastically __offered to get her a refill as well as one for himself and she said yes. With the utmost care he filled the crystal glasses—mindful to get punch from the clear bowl as she'd instructed him earlier—and made his way back toward her. Unfortunately, his father saw him helping himself to the punch and, not realizing that Malcolm had fetched the "child-safe" variety, strode purposefully across the room. He reached the boy just as Malcolm reached Colleen._

"_Malcolm," Stuart hissed. Startled by his father's voice the younger Reed jumped, spinning to face him. A nearby adult stepped backward, knocking into the boy and making him lose his balance. As if in slow motion Malcolm felt himself falling, landing on the floor directly in front of his new friend, the glasses shattering at her feet as they hit the floor. Their contents had gone airborne, drenching the front of her gown. He laid there a moment before panic kicked in, sending him scrambling to his feet._

"_Malcolm, what have you __done__?" his father __rumbled__, startling the boy anew. His mother had arrived on the scene by now and was attempting to help mop the front of Colleen's gown._

"_Oh, Mrs. Berrington," Mary Reed lamented, "I am __so__ sorry! Let me help you with that."_

_Mrs. Berrington__. That was all Malcolm had to hear. As the woman tried to reach past Mary to get to him, Malcolm ran from the room. Running down the hall he spotted a dimly lit room and ducked in, silently closing the door behind him. Spotting the massive desk he ran around it and huddled beneath it, knees drawn up beneath him, his father's voice echoing over and over in his head: __'Remember, Malcolm, you mustn't provoke Mrs. Berrington.'__ Before long he was breaking yet another rule by allowing tears to flow freely down his cheeks. His struggle to stifle his sobs was unsuccessful._

"_Hello, Malcolm," Colleen's voice called tenderly to him. He hadn't heard her enter the room, hadn't noticed the light coming on, hadn't even heard her approach the desk. Frightened, he pushed himself further back, trying to make himself smaller. She knelt, gazing in at him with concern. "Didja hurt yourself? Didja get cut on the glass?"_

_He stared at her, his sobs preventing an answer. His gaze drifted down the front of her gown, her beautiful gown that he'd ruined. _"_I've…spoilt…your…pretty dress and…broke your…glasses and ruined…your party," he gasped between sobs, then froze as he heard his father's stern, icy voice from the doorway. Malcolm held his breath, terrified that his father had heard him crying._

"_Malcolm, come out of there this __instant__."_

_Mrs. Berrington locked her gentle eyes on Malcolm's and spoke so only he could hear. _"_You wait right there." Standing, she leaned across the desk. "Stuart, why don'tcha go back to the party and let me tend to this? The lad's just a wee bit upset is all," she said diplomatically._

_Stuart Reed would have none of it. _"_I'm sorry he's caused so much trouble, but you may rest assured that he'll be properly disciplined for misbehaving." Malcolm heard his father striding across the room toward the desk and could see just enough of Mrs. Berrington to see that she'd planted her feet firmly and folded her arms across her chest. The only way for the elder Reed to reach his son would be to knock Mrs. Berrington over. There was far more glacial fury in Colleen's shaking, enraged voice than he had ever heard in his father's._

"_Now see here Stuart Reed, ya bloody sonuva sea cook, I'll have ya know that this child has been a __perfectly__ well-mannered little boy the entire evening. Jaysus, when I first saw 'im tonight he was hidin' in a feckin' __corner__ 'cuz he was so bloody worried 'bout doin' somethin' __wrong__. He __didn't__ cause any trouble and he bloody well __wasn't__ misbehaving, ya feckin' eedgit. We were having a lovely chat over some punch and he graciously offered to fetch a refill for me, like the right and proper gentleman he is. If he hadn't gotten the wits startled out of him by __you__ and then gotten run into, it wouldn't have even __happened__. How __dare__ ya blame him fer somethin' that wasn't even any of his __doin__'! An' ta top it off, after the boy's taken a fall and lain amidst broken glass, __yer__ biggest concern is that he's spilt some punch an' embarrassed you!? Shit an' molasses, man, did it even __occur__ to ya that he coulda been __hurt__? You just get the bloody blue hell outta here an' __I'll__ tend to him." After an arctic silence she spoke again. "You heard me, ya feckin' eedgit—__scat__. And close the bloody door on yer way out," she commanded. From his hiding place Malcolm heard the door slowly close; after a long silence Colleen crouched down and looked in at him._

_"Please come out. I wanna know if yer all right," she pleaded softly, her voice trembling slightly. "C'mon outta there, please. Lemme check ya over, okay?" When he remained frozen in place, she merely shrugged then stretched out on the floor next to him under the massive desk. He hadn't expected __that__._

"_Malcolm, I wantcha to understand something," she cooed soothingly. I know yer young, but yer a right smart lad so this should be easy enough fer such a bright boy ta understand. First and foremost, you most certainly did __not__ ruin my party. 'Tisn't even __my__ party, it's my __husband's__, an' to be perfectly frank with ya, I was dreadin' the whole thing 'til I met up with you—ya brightened the whole bloody occasion for me. Now as to the dress, when it comes right down to it this dress is just a wad of fabric. It can be washed, and if it's stained then so be it. They make dresses every day. An' the glasses are just that—chunksa glass. D'ya know what glass is made of?" Malcolm shook his head—he hadn't ever thought about what glass was made of. "Basically, it's sand," she told him. "Just melted sand, and there are countless billions of grains of sand in the world, so they can make lots __more glasses on a pretty regular basis. Just like dresses. Now…d'ya know how many dresses and glasses there are in the world?" When Malcolm shook his head Colleen laughed. _"_Neither do I, my little lamb…but I know how many Malcolm Reeds there are that I care about, an' I'm lookin' at th' only one. An' I'm worried about him 'cuz I dunno if he got hurt when he fell. Now…how 'bout comin' outta there so I kin be sure yer okay?"_

Malcolm awoke with a jolt, his breath catching in his throat. The dream had been so vivid he could still smell the sweet, faint odor of Colleen Berrington's perfume mingled with punch. Rubbing his good hand over his face brought the unexpected discovery of dampness on his cheeks. Disoriented, he sat up to get his bearings in the darkened room. Dull pain in his chest, back and abdomen finally helped him remember that he was in a Sickbay biobed, flanked on his left by Crewman Saunders and on his right by the blood-thirsty, crazy-arse alien that had put both of them here.

Shifting in the bed he sighed, closing his eyes in exhaustion. Every muscle ached from the near-constant spasms that had until recently racked his entire body. Even his face hurt, and his throat was raw from all the screaming. And Phlox, still concerned about possible interactions with the alien drug, hadn't dared give him anything for the pain. The doctor had expressed hope that by morning the toxin would be out of his system but there were no guarantees. Malcolm felt, however, that since the tremors and irrepressible impulse to scream and lash out had subsided that the chemical must be all but played out. That didn't mean, however, that the worst was over.

He could just imagine what his crewmates must be saying about him—surely by now everyone on board must know about his screaming, thrashing fits. He wasn't sure he'd ever be able to hold his head up in front of them: he'd suffered humiliation before, certainly, but never on a ship-wide basis. The _captain_ had seen him like that, and Trip, as well as the entire staff of Sickbay. And, he wondered, exactly how many Security details had been in and out taking shifts over the G'l Benai in the next bed? His subordinates would not have been able to ignore his uncontrolled, irrational, and oft-times violent fits of rage. Indeed, some of them had been instrumental in restraining him more than once. Prim and proper Lt. Reed, screaming at the top of his lungs and flailing about like a madman for all the world to see. Hell, the only one who _wouldn't_ know about it was Saunders, and that small blessing was bitterly tempered by the fact that the man missed all those rabid antics only because he was in the next bed unconscious and recovering from a near-fatal attack.

Not only would everyone know about his feral behavior but they would no doubt also find out that when the ship had been under fire, his hand had been the one launching the torpedoes. True, the G'l Benai had exerted physical force to make him do it, but in the end it was still _his_ hand on the switch. Being overpowered and forced to try to kill those he was sworn to protect was one of the most mortifying, shameful experiences in his life. Or at least, his adult life. He stared unblinking at the ceiling, replaying the events of the party in his head.

He had cast memories of that night to the farthest corner of his brain: he'd been so successful in pushing it aside that until now the only remnant of the party left in his conscious mind had been a lingering dread at the mention of the name Berrington. The memories now came slamming back in stunning detail. All the sounds and even smells of that evening flooded in on him; it occurred to him that the clarity of it might be a residual effect of the chemical still in his system but he didn't particularly care at the moment.

When the woman had first approached him he'd been scared stiff but she'd quickly put him at ease with her casual banter. And he'd _never_ met and adult who would introduce themselves to a child by only their first name. When she'd put her arm over his shoulders and leaned toward him he'd noticed how lovely she smelled. Her voice was one of the most pleasant he'd ever heard, her Irish lilt relaxing and her words candid; there was none of the stiff formality and protocol he'd come to expect from most adults. Well, her voice had been pleasant when she'd spoken to _him_—when she'd spoken to his _father_, verbally chasing him from the room, her voice had been quite different. No one to Malcolm's knowledge had _ever_ been able to intimidate Stuart Reed. The memory of it made him smile almost evilly; he regretted that he hadn't been able to see his father's face when she'd torn into him.

When he'd finally come out from under the desk she'd pulled him onto her lap, stroking his hair and tenderly wiping his tears with the cuff of her sleeve as he rested his head against her chest. Still seated on the floor, she had rocked him gently as everything had poured out of him: all the rules he couldn't seem to obey no matter how hard he tried, his frustrations and fears about not being able to please his father, how he thought he could do nothing to make his parents proud of him, and finally a review of how he'd ruined her party.

"It's the first grown-up party I've ever had any real fun at, too," he'd lamented, snuffling pathetically. "And now I can't stop crying. Reed men don't cry."

"Whaddaya mean, Reed men don't cry?"

"My father says we're not s'possed to cry, 'cuz we're Reeds and Reed men don't cry."

There had been a very long silence as she continued stroking his head. At last she'd spoken. "Tell me somethin', Malcolm…are there alotta rules about what Reed men can and can't do?"

"Yes ma'am."

"Hmmm. Well, I don't think it'd be proper ta tell ya to ignore the rules yer parents lay down, but this is _my_ house, an' _I _have rules, _too_, ya know."

He'd looked up into her face then, a surge of dismay running through him. "Which ones did I break?" he'd asked meekly, wondering what kind of punishments she used for naughty children like him. An expression of deep sorrow had filled her face but she'd forced herself to smile, blinking several times to force away tears as she wiped away his.

"Well that's just it, my little lamb, ya haven't broken _any_ of 'em. Quite the opposite, because one of the most important rules of _mine_ is that if yer around me ya can't be shovin' yer feelings aside all the time. If ya wanna cry, ya cry, an' if ya wanna laugh, ya laugh. So, I propose an addendum to that rule about Reed men not cryin', just between the two of us so's we don't get yer father upset with us. Any time you're with me you can cry or laugh or shout or whatever ya want. Just think of me as neutral territory. D'ya understand what I mean?"

As the meaning had sunk in he'd nodded cautiously. "I think so, ma'am. Does it mean you don't care if I make mistakes?"

"Not exactly. It means that I don't think the mistakes ya make are as serious as other folks may think them to be. Y'll not be harshly judged fer breakin' any of those rules about bein' a Reed man, an' it's nobody else's business if any of those rules get bent or broke while yer here."

He'd gazed into those kind sky-blue eyes a long time before speaking again, his voice a somber whisper. "Thank you Mrs. Berrington, ma'am."

"Here now, ya don't need ta be callin' me Mrs. Berrington. I toldja before, I'm Colleen…but I suppose yer father's got a rule about what to call folks too, am I right?" He'd given a small nod and she'd smiled. "Well, first off," her voice sunk to a conspiratorial whisper, "yer father's not here now, is he? Still, I suppose it wouldn't do for me to tell you outright to break a rule that he's laid down, so, if you _must _be at all formal, let's just stick with 'ma'am', shall we?" He remembered both of them giggling, then her asking if he wanted to return to the party or stay in the study. They'd both opted for the study. He'd realized that he needed a tissue but there wasn't one on hand, so she had offered the hem of her gown to a very shocked little boy. The fabric was soft against his skin as she delicately tidied his face with it, dabbing at the remaining tears before wiping his nose for him, urging him to 'blow summa that muck outta there.' He'd been stunned but obeyed her affectionate command.

He had no idea how long they'd sat there on the floor; he remembered hearing the muted sounds of music and distant conversation, the countdown to midnight and the cheers of the revelers. He also remembered puzzling over some of what she had said to his father, but when he'd asked what a "feckin' eedgit" was she'd merely chuckled, telling him that it was a phrase that some adults used but best not uttered by little boys. He'd felt warm and safe as he'd fallen asleep on the woman's lap, relishing the feeling of having his head stroked as she'd sung quietly to him. Something about little lambs, but he couldn't quite pull the song to the front of his memory. And someone must have come in as he was drifting off to sleep, because he remembered hearing her say the name Edmund.

There had been no time in life, either before or since, when he had felt so entirely safe, comfortable, or loved. Looking back on it, he was having more than a little bit of difficulty believing that the sweet, affectionate little woman he'd met in childhood and the fiery, foul-mouthed harpy bitch-goddess grandmother of Crewman Saunders were one and the same. Well, upon further reflection the foul-mouthed part lined up quite nicely when he recalled how she'd talked to his father. He smirked again at the mental image of his father, a giant of a man who feared neither man nor beast, being cowed by the four-foot-aught force of nature that was Colleen Berrington. It was refreshing to know that after all his parent's admonitions to him, it had been his _father_ that had provoked the woman. _God_, how he wished he could have seen his father's face.

The nearby unintelligible mumblings of their alien "guest" faded in and out of his mind, breaking his focus and annoying the hell out of him. He refrained from bellowing at the furry bastard to shut the bloody hell up—he feared it might bring about another uncontrollable screaming fit, plus his head was throbbing and his throat wasn't up to the task.

Yelling at the murderous feline just wasn't worth the effort. Closing his eyes again, he decided to try using the low purring sounds to his advantage; there _was_ a bit of a hypnotic quality to it that might help him get back to sleep. As he listened, though, something seemed wrong about it. Frowning, eyes still closed, he concentrated on the alien's voice. _'It's not right…something's not right about it.'_

The tone of it wasn't at all threatening, wasn't loud or obnoxious, but _something_ was _wrong_ with it. His eyes snapped open at the shocking realization that it was coming from the wrong place. The G'l Benai was in the bed to his right, but its voice was coming from the left. Where Saunders lay unconscious. Defenseless. Looking to his right and left did no good, for Phlox had drawn the privacy curtains around all the beds. And calling out seemed a poor option—if the creature was indeed stalking through Sickbay there was no sense broadcasting to it that he was awake and available for disemboweling. Instinct and adrenaline took over; Reed slipped quietly from bed to do a little stalking of his own. All discomfort evaporated as he padded barefoot to the corner of the curtain surrounding the alien's bed and edged it silently out of the way.

Rossini was sprawled unmoving on the floor next to the empty bed. Malcolm noiselessly went to the man's side, checking for vital signs and expecting the worst. The guard was alive but unconscious, with no outward signs of trauma. Reed felt rage building rapidly within him as he heard more of the alien's soft chatterings from behind the curtains. Then he spotted the guard's phase pistol still in its holster. Pulling the weapon from its home with his left hand he checked the setting, giving serious consideration to switching it from "stun". He wanted with all his being to kill the furry bastard. A hundred vicious scenarios flashed vividly through his mind, all of them involving killing the alien and each successive fantasy more violent and gory than its predecessors.

'_Whoa. Guess that damned alien drug hasn't entirely worn off after all,'_ he thought after an unnervingly satisfying fantasy involving their guest, a chainsaw, Chef's extensive collection of cutlery, a meat grinder, and Great-Grandmother Reed's recipe for homemade sausages. Silently skulking toward the sound of the G'l Benai's voice Malcolm vowed that this time he was either going to stop the alien behemoth or die in the attempt. He just wished that he could stop wondering if Chef had any sausage casings.

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His brain was still trying to process the white feline face filling his field of vision as the alien cautiously laid the back of a long, furry index finger against his cheek near his mouth. David flinched reflexively; certain that the beast would tear the tube from his mouth he feebly reaching up to try to prevent it. Though he was able to catch hold of the alien's wrist he was unable to move the bandaged hand away from his mouth.

Rather than pull away, the behemoth reached up with his free hand to turn on the headset translator he was wearing. "Be calm," he said in a deep, hypnotic whisper, his voice slow and deliberate as he chose his words with care. "You are in no danger from me this day. Do you comprehend?" Saunders nodded painfully, frightened eyes locked on the eyes of the alien. A small smile danced on the warrior's lips, the tips of his sharp incisors showing. "Good," he replied, easily slipping from David's grasp as he withdrew his hand from the man's face. He bent closer to the crewman, bringing his face within mere inches of the man he'd tried to kill. "I would speak with you. The physician said you cannot speak yet, but I have questions. Is there a way for you to answer without speaking?"

Despite the proximity of his would-be killer, Saunders suddenly felt remarkably calm. The alien's face no longer showed any sign of the blood lust and rage of their earlier encounter; indeed, his expression was almost peaceful. David only hoped that, if the G'l Benai _did_ decide to kill him now, it would at least do him the courtesy of just snapping his neck and having done with it. He slowly closed his eyes, keeping them shut a moment before opening them again. _'Still there…okay, I guess it's not a Phlox-juice induced hallucination.'_ He thought about the alien's question: how _could_ he answer any questions? Even without the tube, the damage to his throat would make speaking extremely difficult if not outright impossible. Another memory clicked into place and he reached for the padd Hoshi had left on the bedstand.

His sudden movement startled the G'l Benai, who snatched at his wrist with a gasp. David froze then slowly pointed at the device. The warrior released his grip and carefully lifted the padd from the table, scrutinizing it briefly before giving it a perfunctory sniff and handing it to Sanders.

The alien's broad nose wrinkled as he bent forward and sniffed intently at Saunders. "Has your captain brought you here to kill us?" he finally asked.

The stunned crewman stared at him in disbelief—if the G'l Benai's attack hadn't already rendered him speechless the question would have. After a few seconds he turned his attention to the padd, studying the screen briefly before tapping in his reply. "No. He wanted to help you." The voice that came out of the device sounded somewhat like him but the inflections were off, giving his response an unnatural, almost mechanical quality to it. He wondered if there might be a way for Hoshi to tinker with it a bit more—he found the unemotional voice stilted and unsettling.

The G'l Benai seemed temporarily disconcerted as well; his brow furrowed as his translator did its job but then his features smoothed into an impassive mask as he again sniffed at Saunders. The huge eyes slowly blinked. "Did he send you to claim my captain's ship as his own?"

"No. I already told you, he wanted to help you. We heard your distress call and came to help." Another sniff, long and slow. Saunders wished the alien's features were a little easier to interpret—he almost preferred the all-too-easily read unrestrained rage of a short time ago to the cautiously neutral expression he wore now. At least then there had been no doubt in anyone's mind what the warrior's intentions had been. David couldn't even begin to gauge whether the G'l Benai believed him. Saunders tried to turn his head away only to have the creature seize his chin in a soft but unyielding grip. When he seemed satisfied that the crewman wouldn't turn away again, he took his massive hand away.

"Why did you board my captain's ship?"

"We were hoping to find out where the survivors went. We can't help them if we can't find them." Another damned sniff. _'Geez, did I fart or something?'_

The head inched away from him, tipping at an angle that would have been amusing—even endearing—if Porthos had done it. When this fellow did it, though, it was just scary: he could be pondering the answers he'd gotten or deciding where exactly to sink his teeth. An eternal silence followed as the alien eyes kept staring unblinking. Gradually the expression on the felinoid face changed as he straightened his head, showing an odd mix of emotions: regret, sorrow, and fear shone in the G'l Benai's eyes.

With visible effort the warrior forced the emotions from his features before speaking again. "Apologizes for interrupting your rest. It was regrettable, but I required answers. You should sleep now, to speed your recovery." Leaning forward the G'l Benai spoke again, admiration shining in his eyes as he lightly placed his hand on David's shoulder. "Yours is truly worthy blood. You were an admirable opponent, and it was a privilege to do battle against you."

An eternal silence followed, until at last the G'l Benai reached down with one enormous hand and lightly placed the tip of his index finger between Saunders' eyebrows and pressed gently. "This should help you sleep," he explained, keeping pressure on the spot for about a minute before reaching behind the man's head with both hands. With powerful fingers that could have crushed the man's skull the alien tenderly applied light pressure to several points at the base of David's skull. "Sleep now," he urged quietly. "It will be well soon. You should rest now." The deep, soft vocalizations had an hypnotic quality that Saunders could not fend off, and soon he was slumbering peacefully. As the G'l Benai withdrew his hands one of his ears flicked backward at an almost inaudible sound an instant before Lt. Reed's voice growled hoarsely from behind him.

"Get the hell away from him or I'll kill you where you stand."

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Slowly the massive head turned, the warrior looked over his shoulder to appraise the Human behind him. His blue eye warily studied the little man from head to foot, grudgingly admiring the stealth of the Human. Most G'l Benai would have failed to get this close without him knowing it, but this little creature had managed to retrieve the unconscious guard's weapon and get within striking distance almost unnoticed. Impressive.

It would be a shame to kill him—especially now—but his challenge could not go unanswered. What would be the best way to subdue him without causing excessive damage? He surveyed the little man again and smiled to himself. These creatures had no tails…in his experience those without tails were unaware what an effective weapon the appendage could be. He actually chuckled out loud, amused at the potential the situation held as well as the irony of his position. A few hours ago he'd vowed to kill Lieutenant, and now he could not do so. A few hours ago this man and his people had boarded _Koshneer_ not to kill but to render aid, and now this same man would no doubt take great pleasure in killing him. The Ancestors were feeling fickle this day. That was sometimes the way of things.

The worst that could happen, he decided, was that he'd be killed by the toy gun the little man had leveled at him. But, if this were done correctly, his adversary's opportunity to kill him would be denied. As long as the Human did not notice what he was doing, it should work. He knew it would be painful—his tail was broken in several places, after all—but pain had lately come to be a valued and familiar companion. Turning slowly to face his opponent he smiled broadly, teeth glistening. He raised both hands to show his own lack of artificial weaponry as well as to try to keep the Human's gaze away from the floor. His plan would be rendered ineffective if Loo-ten-ant looked down, after all.

"So…it is…awake," he cooed gently, flexing his fingers.

"Damned right," Malcolm replied icily, his eyes locked on the G'l Benai. He tensed, leveling the phase pistol at the creature's head as it took a small, tentative step toward him.

The alien shrugged, a peculiar purring growl coming from deep within. His voice was low, his words coming slowly. "You _did_ tell me to get away from Crewman, did you not? But you will kill me if I try to move away. Perhaps I should move back to him?"

"Perhaps you shouldn't move at all," Reed growled menacingly.

Seemingly indifferent, the creature merely shrugged again, fingers still gracefully curling and uncurling. "As you wish," he said softly, his voice almost soothing in its gentleness. "But I am…curious. Your injuries are painful, and you are…fatigued. So…how long will you be able to keep your feet beneath you?" Unseen, his tail snaked between his legs and along the floor, twitching toward the Human by millimeters.

"As long as necessary…or at the very least, for the rest of your life—unless you behave yourself," Malcolm replied.

The alien chuckled. "You speak with the arrogance of a general**.** Tell me, little general, which bothers you more—that I was so easily able to overpower you on my captain's ship or the knowledge that I can just as easily do the same here on _your_ captain's ship?"

"_Now_ who's being arrogant?"

"Hmm," the G'l Benai purred, "a valid point. However, my…arrogance…is earned, I think. I took you off your feet despite my own injuries, and crippled your captain's ship." His smile broadened. Malcolm had always thought Phlox had the most unsettling grin he'd ever seen, but this smug furry bastard had the doctor beaten by a mile in that department.

"And the truly…ironic…part of the whole situation is that now," the warrior continued, "although _I_ no longer seek to kill _you_, _you_ are quite eager to kill _me_. My visit with Crewman bestowed wisdom upon me…perhaps you should talk with him also?"

"What did you do to him?" Reed demanded.

The G'l Benai blinked calmly. "I _talked_ to him. I had…questions. He provided answers." His tail was almost perfectly positioned—if only he could close the gap between them just a little...

"You _interrogated_ him?" Now thoroughly enraged, Malcolm took a menacing step toward the alien. "You damn near _kill_ him and then while he's helpless in a biobed you go after him _again_? And expect him to answer questions with his _throat_ half torn out?"

"He has a device for communicating, so he did not need to speak. And, knowing he needs to rest, I attempted to keep our conversation brief. I did not, as you claim, 'interrogate' him. Would he have fallen back to sleep so readily if I had done so?"

"I don't know that he _is_ asleep—for all I know you've done something to him, tried to finish the job you started back on your ship."

"It is not _my_ ship, it is my _captain's_ ship," he corrected. "As for Crewman's condition…there are always the monitors."

Malcolm risked a millisecond to glance at the monitor over Saunders' bed and saw that the man did appear to be merely sleeping. He glared back at the G'l Benai.

"If you wish, little general," the warrior offered, head tilted to one side and eyes filled with mischief, "I could _demonstrate_ the difference between a conversation and an interrogation."

The corner of Malcolm's mouth twitched as he replied, eyes narrowing in contempt as he took another half-step closer. "Oh, I _do_ wish you'd _try_. I'd _so_ love the opportunity to teach you a lesson." The alien grinned wider than ever, eyes glittering maniacally, and an instant later Malcolm Reed felt as though someone had rammed a shuttle pod into his groin at full impulse.


	9. Chapter 9

_Author's note: First, I found some glaring errors in Chapter 8, including an omitted scene between Hoshi and Travis. Have corrected and reposted, so you might want to reread that chapter before proceeding with this one..._

_Second...the symbol I've used for the rolled/trilled "r" is likely incorrect but seemed the best candidate. Should probably also note that G'l Benai from different provinces will pronounce some words differently from one another (much as people from different parts of the same country do), so some G'l Benai roll/trill more than others. You can chalk it up to differences in accents, dialects, or whatever. Will try to spell words pretty much as they are pronounced, providing notes about differing pronunciations as needed.  
__  
__PRONOUNCIATION GUIDE:  
Lightly rolled or trilled 'r's are indicated by ř. _  
_Do-Veen: doughVEEN  
_  
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Even if he'd wanted to—and between the embarrassment, frustration, and the sheer agony of the situation he truly _did_ want to—Reed couldn't have screamed. The blow had doubled him over and drained all air from his lungs, and from the feel of things had quite possibly endangered hopes of Stuart and Mary Reed ever becoming grandparents. Though he was foggy on the details of how exactly it had happened—he'd been a tad distracted by the excruciating sensation flaring from the point of impact and flowing through his entire being—he now found himself trapped in the alien's powerful grip. His left arm was pinned firmly behind his back, his casted right hand pawing desperately at the large, partially bandaged arm wrapped snugly around his throat. His bare feet were barely touching the floor as the beast held him just enough aloft to prevent him gaining any leverage. The privacy curtain had been shoved aside, and God only knew where the phase pistol had wound up.

Damn it all to hell, this was _not_ how things were supposed to have gone! _'Should have just __shot__ the hairy S.O.B. and had __done__ with it...'_ Great-Grandmother Reed's sausage recipe was looking better with each passing second.

With the crook of the behemoth's left elbow encasing his throat it was increasingly difficult to replace the oxygen his lungs were beginning to scream for; his mouth gaped as he unsuccessfully pried at the appendage and gasped for air. The arm loosened enough to allow an intake of precious air but nudged his chin upward, forcing his head back painfully. A reflexive shiver ran up his spine as the alien's cold, wet nose brushed against the nape of his neck and snuffled along the back of his head. As the creature brought its mouth near his ear Malcolm flinched, remembering the video T'Pol had shown them before this merry adventure had begun. As he waited to feel sharp teeth tearing into him, furred lips gently grazed his flesh. The G'l Benai murmured in his ear, the sounds coming out of him mingling with the output from his translator.

"If I had placed Crew-man in a position such as this before speaking with him, _that_ would have been an 'interrogation'. That is the difference between 'interrogation' and 'conversation'." Malcolm didn't need to see the huge furry face—he could _hear_ the grin in the G'l Benai's voice. "Now that I have taught you this," the warrior continued, "what did _you _wish to teach _me_? You _said_ you wanted to teach me a lesson."

"Never mind," Reed hissed, forcing his voice through his constricted airway. "Not important."

"Hmm," his captor purred, "regrettable. I was…eager to learn from you." Movements rapid and fluid, he moved his arm and grasped the man's throat with his bandaged, massive left hand. Adjusting his grip on the Human's neck, he hoped the Ancestors wouldn't think less of him for having a _little_ fun. Besides, he had to be certain the little general fully understood his intentions. "It would be such an easy thing…so many ways to kill you if I desired it. Tighten my grip here," he cooed seductively, increasing the pressure against Reed's Adam's apple, "and cut off your air. Or here," he indicated, twitching his fingertips beneath Malcolm's ears, "and interrupt the blood supply to your brain. If I let go soon enough you would survive but likely be permanently incapacitated from lack of blood flow to the brain. Extend my claws," he whispered, letting the lieutenant feel sharp pinpricks beneath both ears, "and simply slice through the veins and arteries. Effortless for me, but messy and painful for you.

"One bite," he continued, moving his head to allow his teeth to graze the base of Malcolm's skull, "and I could sever the spinal cord. If properly done death would be almost instantaneous, virtually painless. Or perhaps I could tear off your arm," he suggested, mirth in his quiet voice as he gave the man's left arm a playful, painful tug, "and beat you to death with it."

"But instead," Malcolm quipped in a strained whisper, toes still barely touching the floor, "you seem to have decided to _talk_ me to death."

The G'l Benai chuckled—he hadn't expected humor from the man—and slightly eased his grip on Malcolm's throat, letting Reed's feet rest fully on the floor. "That option had not occurred to me." Reed stopped straining against the alien's grip, finally able to breathe unhindered. The alien's voice became suddenly serious; the time for fun was over. "On my captain's ship I reveled in the prospect of killing you. It was all that kept me alive. I was satisfied with the opportunity to avenge my people against those who had attacked us, and I was convinced that you were the ones responsible."

Malcolm unsuccessfully tried to look over his shoulder at the G'l Benai. "I told you before—_we_ weren't the ones who _attacked_ you!"

"I thought you were trying to save your own life by deceiving me, but after speaking with Crew-man I know now that it was not so—I know now that you spoke the truth. A short time ago I wanted to kill as many of you as possible, but now I cannot. It is not honorable to kill one who attempts to render aid." Further easing his grip on Malcolm's throat he heaved a sigh, not eager to admit his failings but knowing that it was necessary. "In the weapons room you regained your feet and took me off of mine, and I saw in your eyes that you would kill me. Regrettably I allowed instinct and impulse to guide my actions—I pushed you away when I should have surrendered, should have welcomed the deathblow. Even flat on my back, it would have been a great honor to die at the hands of such a worthy opponent, and my entry into the Great Hall would have been assured.

"I will let go of you, but I have a request to make. I do not expect to be allowed to live and I cannot ask to be spared, but as one warrior to another I would ask that you…_delay_ my execution for a brief time. There is an obligation which I must first tend to."

Before the stunned lieutenant could respond the doors opened to admit Hoshi with her translator in hand, Dr. Phlox, and Crewman Atkinson. Seeing the situation Atkinson drew her weapon, positioning herself between the alien and the door as she motioned for Phlox and Hoshi to get behind her.

The startled G'l Benai growled, instinctively tightening his grip on Reed's neck and left arm as he locked his eyes on the armed woman. "Leave this place now."

Miranda opened her mouth to reply but Malcolm spoke first. "Atkinson, get them out of here," he commanded, his voice strained from the renewed pressure on his throat. When she hesitated he barked, "That's an _order_, crewman—_out, now_!" She nodded grudgingly, motioning for the doctor and ensign toward the door.

Scowling, Phlox shook his head angrily. "We're not going _any_where," he snapped curtly. Shoving aside the curtain that still surrounded the last bed he crouched next to Rossini. "Crewman, Ensign, help me with this man." As Phlox revived the unconscious guard he spared a moment to address the lieutenant tersely. "Mr. Reed, I have not yet declared you to be medically fit for duty. Consequently you have _very_ little authority to issue orders." He stood and faced the men as Hoshi and Randy helped Keith to the exam table. And _you_," he added, casting a withering glare at the G'l Benai, "have even _less_ authority here than the lieutenant does. This is _my_ sickbay, and the authority to give commands here lies with _me_. If you don't unhand my patient I shall not be responsible for my actions toward you."

The hand gripping Reed's throat dropped away and braced firmly against his chest to hold him close; the other hand kept Malcolm's left arm twisted painfully behind him. Whiskers tickled the side of his neck as the G'l Benai again leaned close. "Why does he want me to remove your hands?"

"That's _not_ what he said!" Malcolm hissed in protest.

"He said to unhand you," the warrior replied without hesitation. "Have you behaved inappropriately toward one of his mates?"

"_NO_!" Reed hoarsely shrieked in panicked disbelief, straining uselessly against the alien's viselike grip.

Ensign Sato tapped furiously at the UT as the men talked, hoping to find a way to get through to the alien.

"Release that man at _once_!" the doctor angrily insisted.

"No, don't!" Hoshi shouted in panicked desperation as she looked up from the readout on the UT. _'Oh godohgodohgod...Okay Sato, pull yourself together. You've got one shot at this. Just remember to stay calm and be intimidating. Besides, you outrank him...I think.'_ Steeling herself, she strode purposefully to the two men, locking a ferocious stare up at the G'l Benai. The most ungodly sounds Malcolm had ever heard—sounding like an amalgam of several Earth languages, a healthy dose of Klingon, and an angry cat being slowly strangled—streamed out of her mouth as she gestured sharply from herself, Reed, and the others then to the alien. From the volume and tone, and the positively terrifying expression on her face, he guessed that buried somewhere in all those noises rapidly pouring out of her mouth, there had to be a string of threats and maybe even a few obscenities. The only words he could make out were the ships' names as well as 'medical', 'communications', and 'tactical', and even those innocuous terms sounded menacing and alien.

The sounds stopped as abruptly as they'd begun and Sato stood her ground, her murderous glare fixed unwaveringly on the massive alien. Malcolm braced himself, certain that the huge alien would toss him aside and attack Hoshi and equally certain he was in no position to prevent it. _'For the love of God, Hoshi, run...'_

Instead the warrior cautiously eased his grip on Reed's arm and throat then carefully backed away from the lieutenant; Malcolm felt his newly liberated arm drop numbly to his side. He looked down at the useless limb then at Hoshi, whose venomous eyes were still glowering at the alien.

"Malcolm, come _here_," she snarled, still staring up at their hairy guest. He struggled to obey but took only a single step before his shaky legs betrayed him, folding beneath him like a defective lawn chair. Before he could hit the floor a huge bandaged arm came from behind and wrapped under his left arm and around his chest, hoisting him upright.

"I have you," the alien's deep voice assured him. The arm tenderly cradled him as the G'l Benai's other hand probed his shoulder, spine, and neck, fingers skillfully caressing some areas and pressing into others. A tiny voice in the furthest corner of Reed's mind urged him to get away but it was overruled, mainly because he knew his legs wouldn't hold him but also because the impromptu acupressure session seemed to be helping. Besides, whatever Snowball was doing felt bloody _marvelous_. Sensation was fast returning to his previously numb arm, and his legs were beginning to feel almost useful again. There was a sudden brief sensation of weightlessness and he realized that the warrior had gently slid an arm behind his legs and lifted him. Setting him on the center biobed the G'l Benai slinked away, cautiously shifting his alien gaze from the floor to Hoshi then back to the deck plating. What the hell had she _said_ to him?

"You," Hoshi snapped at the alien, eyes still blazing. "Sit. Down. _Now._" The warrior complied instantly, giving a small yelp as he dropped onto his bed. "What's wrong?" the ensign asked crossly.

"Apologies, _En-tier-přice_ First Communications…it is a minor thing," he replied with embarrassment. "I…forgot to move my tail." He shifted uncomfortably as they looked; his tail was pinned crookedly beneath his derrière.

"Well _fix it_," Sato sharply demanded with an impatient wave of her hand. He stood just long enough to rescue the injured appendage then perched on the end of the bed with a nervous glance at Sato. Folding her arms across her chest, UT still firmly in her grip, she stared daggers back at him and sent his gaze crashing to the floor. Sparing a glance at Miranda, Hoshi sent a curt nod toward the phase pistol. "Atkinson, put that away." The crewman mutely, hurriedly complied.

Still stunned, Malcolm couldn't help gaping at the woman as he pondered her unnaturally brusque, aggressive manner. What in the world had gotten _into_ her? If he didn't know better he'd think she'd somehow been exposed to the same damned 'battle stimulant' that Furface had shot into _him_.

"Excuse me…Ensign Sato?" he risked. "Are you…feeling all right?"

Arms still folded she slowly turned to face him, her eyes still radiating cold fury. Her reply was calm, measured, and arctic. "I'm feeling perfectly _fine_, Lieutenant." She took a slow, deliberate step toward him and Malcolm found himself wishing for a subtle, dignified way to dive under the bed. "What makes you think that anything's _wrong_?"

_'Aside from the fact that you look more than willing and eager to kill someone with you bare hands?'_ Somehow he stifled the impulse to blurt out the thought aloud. As he tried to think of something to say that would placate her he saw the corner of her mouth quirk upward just the tiniest bit.

She winked at him.

_'What the bloody hell?...__Ohhh__,' _Malcolm's boggled mind finally registered her silent message: sit there, shut up, and play along. Okay...right, then. He had to give an answer, though, didn't he? "Um...well...you didn't seem to want our guest to let go of me at first...just curious, mind you." He saw a flicker of worry in her eyes before she regained some of her previous calm demeanor.

"There are some words that are translating differently from our language to theirs. 'Release' seems to have a far more...permanent meaning in their language."

"A more…_permanent_ meaning?" Reed asked, puzzled all over again.

For the first time since she'd addressed the alien Hoshi looked uneasy. "It looks like it means..." She faltered for an instant but rallied quickly, deciding that the faster she said it the better. "He would have killed you."

"_What?_" Stunned, he turned his attention again to the alien. "Is that right? You would have _killed_ me?" At the G'l Benai's nod Reed lunged from the bed, right arm drawn back to land a solid punch right across that big furry face. _'Devil take the cast.'_

The warrior easily, gently caught hold of Malcolm's arm in his huge, bandaged hands but otherwise sat unmoving on the bed. "Apologies, En-tier-přice First Tactical, but it might be best," he suggested with annoying calmness, "if you used the other hand. This one is damaged." With that he let go of Reed and sat calmly waiting for the man to strike him.

Malcolm found he couldn't do it even though he was still seething; he settled for pacing alongside the bed and having a bit of a rant. "Do you have _any_ idea how damned _frustrating_ it is trying to figure you out? First you try to _kill_ me, then you latch hold of me and tell me all the ways you _could_ kill me but say you don't _want_ to kill me, _now_ you say you _would_ kill me...would it be asking _too_ much to have you make up your _bloody_ mind which it's to be?" He stopped pacing and tried to ignore Phlox as the doctor approached and scanned him.

Confused, the G'l Benai studied the little general then sighed. He was unaccustomed to having to comprehend the ways of alien people; it was obviously going to be far more difficult than he'd surmised, and the flaws in their language weren't making the task any easier. "When I first encountered you I thought you were the ones who had attacked my captain's ship, so of _course_ I tried to kill you—it was the only proper response. After speaking to Crew-man I knew that I was mistaken, but then you came upon me and issued a challenge. It was necessary to not only answer the challenge without injuring you too severely but to also help you comprehend that I did not wish to harm you." He watched the Denobulan move to, and scan, the still-sleeping Crew-man.

"And you thought telling me all the ways you could kill me would convince me that you weren't going to follow through on it?" Reed asked sarcastically. It clicked an instant later. "Because...if you'd wanted to kill me you'd have just _done_ it instead of _chatting_ about it." _'Just like he could have easily killed Rossini instead of just knocking him out,'_ Malcolm realized. He sank slowly onto the edge of the bed.

"Yes," the alien sighed with relief. _'At last the little general begins to __comprehend__.'_

The doctor looked up from his hand scanner, puzzled. "But how could you think my telling you to let go of the lieutenant meant I wanted you to _kill_ him?"

"You did not say to _let go of him_...you said to _release_ him. And before that you told me to remove his hands."

Hoshi held up a hand before Phlox could argue the point then consulted the readout on the UT. "Some words and phrases are being translated more literally than others. You told him to _unhand_ Malcolm. As far as _release_...I haven't got all the subtleties figured out yet, it looks like _releasing_ a _person_ apparently means relieving them of pain or illness, like a mercy killing."

"A mercy killing," Reed repeated softly.

"Of course," the G'l Benai replied. "What else would it mean?"

The fingers of Malcolm's right hand twitched as he suppressed the urge to slap the alien senseless. "Oh gee, I don't know," he spat back sarcastically, "_maybe_ it meant he wanted you to bloody well _let go of me_!"

"It is not _my_ fault that _your_ language is so imprecise," his former adversary haughtily retorted. "For example, your reference to a water source containing blood makes no sense. Clarify."

_'Water source containing blood?'_ "I didn't say anything about a water source, you _twit_. I _said_—"

"'Bloody well'," Hoshi interrupted. "You said 'bloody well'. I'm guessing his translator processed it as meaning an actual _well_." She turned to the G'l Benai and mustered her earlier commanding air. "It's a figure of speech, not meant to be taken literally. I'll explain in more detail another time. Right now I think we'd all like to know what the two of you were doing when we came in." Her eyes narrowed as she studied their guest. "You said that the lieutenant issued a challenge?" They all turned their attention to Malcolm. One of Hoshi's eyebrows arched exactly like he'd seen T'Pol's do innumerable times and he was certain it meant exactly the same thing as when the Subcommander did it: the ensign was actually using Vulcan body language to scold him.

Reed straightened, unrepentant. "You're damned _right_ I challenged him. I woke up to find Rossini unconscious on the floor and this…this _fuzz-bucket_ standing over Saunders with his hands around the man's throat."

"I did _not_ have my hands _around his __thřoat_," the warrior objected.

"Are you calling me a _liar_?" Malcolm glared at him. It was _really_ getting hard to hold off smacking the brute.

"I am calling you _mistaken_. Your vantage point was compromised and therefore your conclusion is flawed." He aimed his comments at the doctor. "You had said Crew-man needed to rest, but I had questions that required answers. Once he had provided answers I helped him return to sleep."

"May I ask how you did that?" Phlox asked as he scanned Saunders again, giving special attention to the man's throat.

"There are points on the body which, when properly manipulated, help one sleep. Some of those points are on the back of the neck, near the base of the skull. It was necessary to place my hands behind his head in order to reach those points. _That_ is what First Tactical saw. It is no different than what I did for First Tactical so he could more quickly regain sensation and circulation in his legs and arm."

The doctor nodded knowingly. "I am familiar with the concept, though I'm surprised that you would use such skills to help people that you had previously attempted to kill."

"I attacked because I believed these people to be enemies of the G'l Benai," he patiently explained to the Denobulan. "Under the circumstances my actions were proper, just as First Tactical's challenge was proper since he believed me to be a threat to Crew-man. But, knowing now that _my _conclusion was flawed, I must act accordingly. That is why I asked First Tactical to delay my execution—earlier I heard you say that Crew-man requires a transfusion. You must give him my blood."

Phlox was momentarily rendered speechless. "I can't do that," he finally managed to object.

Now it was the G'l Benai's turn to be surprised. "But it is a simple procedure. When we are trained in emergency battlefield medical procedures, it is one of the first things we are taught. I can teach you if you wish."

"It's not a matter of knowing how to perform a transfusion," Phlox explained. "Crewman Saunders is Human and you're G'l Benai."

The warrior pondered it a moment. "There is some sort of cultural taboo?" he ventured.

"No…it's just very doubtful that your blood would be compatible."

"Phfah," the alien scoffed. "Blood is blood…except for Ahn-doořian blood, which is…_blue_," he observed, nose wrinkling at the memory of it. The taste hadn't been unpleasant, but the color was definitely off-putting. "And Vahl-kahn blood, which is poison."

Phlox took a few seconds to think that over and resolved to ask about Vulcan blood later. "Perhaps among your own people all blood is the same, but Human blood differs even from one person to another. Without proper testing I wouldn't even be able to give Crewman Saunders blood from another Human let alone from a non-Human donor. And even if your blood _did_ turn out to be compatible, there's still the little matter of that battle stimulant that's still in your system. It would be too risky to give him a transfusion containing even a small amount of that substance."

Turning his attention from Phlox, the warrior stared mournfully at Saunders a long while before facing Malcolm. "I had asked you to delay my execution, but if I cannot give back to Crew-man the blood I have wrongfully taken from him there is no reason to delay any longer. I am ready." With a cautious glance at Hoshi he stood then crouched under the head of Malcolm's bed. He emerged with the missing phase pistol carefully cradled in his left hand and studied the dwarfed weapon a moment before looking again at the lieutenant. "It is wrong to leave a fine weapon for long upon the ground…even a tiny one such as this," he observed with a slight smile, then grew serious and looked at Saunders again. "If I were among my own people and had committed this crime, I would stand before him and publicly admit my wrongdoing. I would give to him my dagger so that I might die honorably by his hand.

"But he is still weakened from his injuries and unable to avenge himself." Fixing his eyes on Malcolm he nodded knowingly. "But your blood is also upon my hands, En-tier-přice First Tactical. And even if this was not so, you are his superior officer and can act on his behalf in this matter. I confess before these people that I have attacked and injured you and Crew-man, and acknowledge that dishonor has come upon me. For the blood that I have wrongfully taken from both of you, I give my own."

Dropping to one knee in front of Reed he held out his left hand, offering the weapon to the shocked lieutenant. "It is not a dagger, but in the hand of a warrior such as you, it will surely suffice." As Reed took the pistol the alien tipped his head back and far to one side, exposing his throat. "I surrender."

Malcolm looked at the man kneeling before him then at the pistol clutched in his own hand. This was the first time he could remember a weapon feeling so cumbersome and clumsy to him, and shame flooded over him as he remembered his earlier gleeful fantasies about killing the alien. Looking back at the man desperation began to set in as it dawned on Malcolm that the G'l Benai was going to remain kneeling submissively before him until he pulled the trigger. He looked at the others, silently pleading for their help.

Atkinson came to his rescue. "He can't kill you."

"Of course he can," the G'l Benai countered calmly without even looking at her. "It is a simple thing. I have confessed my crime and surrendered my life to him. Now he can execute me and in so doing avenge himself and Crew-man, and allow me to regain my honor in death. That is the way of things."

"That may be the way of things for _you_," Miranda replied, "but that's not how _we_ do things. Besides…" She struggled to think of some way to get Reed out of this situation. "He doesn't have permission to execute you," she blurted.

"Permission?" This time he sent a disbelieving stare her way.

"Of course. He can't execute you without the captain's authorization." Miranda looked to Reed for some sign that she'd done the right thing and gave a small sigh of relief as he silently mouthed _'Thank you.'_

Now the G'l Benai looked at Reed again. "That is absurd. If your captain has to authorize every execution, how does he get any work done? That is a _very_ ineffective way to do things."

"Well," Reed explained, "we don't execute people for every little infraction. In fact, we try very hard to _avoid_ killing people."

"_Little infraction_?" the warrior said, incredulous. "Have you so soon forgotten that I attempted to kill you?" he mocked. "That I almost killed Crew-man? That I forced you to fire upon your captain's ship? That I accused you of having questionable lineage?"

Malcolm's eyes narrowed in anger, then softened as he realized that the man was trying to goad him into firing. (Admittedly, the reminder of his mother being called a whore had come perilously close to doing the trick.) "No…I haven't forgotten. But killing an unarmed man would bring dishonor upon _me_, don't you think? Besides, if I kill you my captain will be very angry with me. Surely you don't expect me to act against the wishes of my captain, do you?"

The alien's chin fell to his chest. He had been so certain that he would soon be reunited with his family, and now…_'Ancestors help me. How am I to regain my honor and come into your presence now?'_ Still, Loo-ten-ant was right. "I comprehend…it would be improper for you to go against his wishes or to risk casting aside your own honor." He looked up, grasping at one last hope. "If I confess before him as well, _then_ would your captain authorize my execution?"

"I…very much doubt it. As I said, we try to avoid killing."

Pained by the implications the G'l Benai closed his eyes and sighed heavily, bowing his head and remembering the advice of his uncle. Punishment for his transgressions was to take another, far more terrible form, and to regain his honor he would have to accept and endure what no G'l Benai in all of remembered history had ever been able to. Failure meant _na'oosh tcha'a_, but failure was inevitable—unless, perhaps, Loo-ten-ant could be convinced to aid him. Surely a fellow warrior of such strength could be convinced to bestow an honorable death upon him. Besides, he'd grown fond of the little general and felt an obligation to warn him of what would eventually happen.

He looked up at his former opponent. "With respect, _En-tier-přice_ First Tactical, I would request that you petition your captain on my behalf and convince him to allow my execution."

"I'm quite sure he won't allow it. We came here to _help_ you, not _kill_ you."

The warrior nodded solemnly—he'd half-suspected that this would be the man's response, but he'd had to _try_. "I comprehend. But if I am to be made to remain alive, there is something which you must know, something of which we never speak to outsiders." He paused to gather himself, struggling against the knowledge that he was divulging a closely-guarded secret. "But you are a worthy opponent and fine warrior, and I desire that no further harm come to you or those on your captain's ship.

"In the time of our ancient ancestors, the G'l Benai were as animals and walked upon four legs, but as our world changed they evolved and came to walk upon two legs. Other changes came upon our world and we adapted to those changes as well, for those who cannot adapt cannot long endure. But there is one thing to which no G'l Benai has ever been able to adapt: captivity. My fellow warrior, you know what it is to have the rational mind overpowered by the animal mind, for that is what the battle stimulant can do to a man. You have felt it, experienced it, and know how difficult it is for the rational mind to regain control.

"Now, I accept that I will be made to remain alive, but _you_ must be made to comprehend that for my people, captivity does not over_power_ the rational mind…it _kills_ the rational mind. I have vowed to my ancestors, to my revered Uncle, eldest brother of my father's father, that I would accept whatever punishment your people chose for me in order to regain my honor and rejoin my family in the Great Hall. I will endeavor to endure for as long as I can, but eventually my rational mind will perish. When that happens only my animal mind will remain, and I will strike out blindly, attempting to kill any whom I can reach. Your people will be in great danger, and as your captain's First Tactical you must protect them as is the First Duty. Promise me, _En-tier-přice_ First Tactical, and vow before all gathered here, that when that time comes you will kill me. I plead with you, my fellow warrior, when my rational mind perishes, do not allow me to harm any others who serve your captain."

Reed stared deeply into the man's eyes and nodded slowly. "I give you my word, you'll not be allowed to harm anyone else." He looked at the others, wondering if they found the situation as surreal as he did, and noted the shock on their faces; they thought, as did the alien, that he'd just committed to killing the man. _'So much for our __imprecise __language__, my furry friend,'_ he thought. _'I never actually said I'd __kill__ you, just that I'll not let you hurt any more of us.'_ He wished he could shoot a reassuring wink to Hoshi the way she'd done for him, but the G'l Benai was still staring up at him. "Oh, do please get up."

The G'l Benai wordlessly complied, casting another nervous look at Hoshi before straddling the foot of his biobed. He stared at the floor as he tried to gather his thoughts and comprehend this strange species. So many questions…and with the aftereffects of the stimulant creeping up on him, thinking was be coming more difficult. _'Think about other things,'_ he told himself. Sometimes the mind could be distracted from the discomfort. Besides, there were things that needed doing: he couldn't afford the luxury of withdrawal symptoms just yet. "With respect, _En-tier-přice_ First Tactical, I would request an audience with your captain."

The perplexed lieutenant looked at the others then at their guest. "If you're planning to ask him to kill you, I've already told you he won't do it."

"I know," the warrior nodded, "and I accept that. But I have attacked his vessel and members of his crew. It would be improper to not confess before him and offer myself to him for punishment."

Malcolm nodded—_god help me, the brute's reasoning makes sense_—and looked to the doctor. "Would it be possible to contact the captain and ask him to come down here?"

"Of course. In fact, he's been looking forward to chatting with our friend," Phlox replied as he went to the comm. "I daresay it should be an interesting conversation."

{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}{}

Hesitating unobserved just outside Sickbay's glass doors, Archer studied the occupants. Ensign Rossini, a far paler shade than usual, was perched on the edge of the exam table, Atkinson standing next to him with a steadying hand on his shoulder. Hoshi and Phlox were near the biobeds seemingly visiting with the patients there. '_Koshneer_ Third Tactical' was straddling the foot of his bed with a hangdog—or would that be hangcat? Archer silently wondered—look on his face and Malcolm sat calmly on his own bed, facing the alien and casually holding a phase pistol on his lap.

Wait a second…phase pistol? Oh hell, that was just _great_. It would have been nice if Phlox had mentioned that Malcolm had gotten his hands on a _weapon_, especially in light of the Armoury Officer's recent murderous bouts of temper. Still, everyone looked to be pretty much intact, the alien looked thoroughly subdued, and Reed seemed perfectly calm. Of course, he'd also seemed perfectly calm right before he'd tried to bludgeon the G'l Benai—and everyone else within range—with a chair.

_'Guess I won't find out what the hell's going on from out here,'_ he told himself. Putting on his best poker face and remembering Hoshi's advice during their recent meeting to maintain a dominant attitude Archer tapped the door control and entered the room.

Six heads turned in unison at the sound of the doors opening; Phlox and Hoshi respectfully straightened their posture as the captain entered but Reed, Rossini, and the G'l Benai leaped from their respective beds and snapped to full attention. Atkinson, too, came to attention but had to break stance when Rossini's knees weakened and she reached to steady him. Malcolm looked for an instant as if he'd falter, too, but the lieutenant quickly recovered.

"As you were," Archer told them. Everyone except their large guest complied, with Rossini and Reed returning to their seats and the others relaxing their posture. The G'l Benai shot a confused look at the others, his questioning eyes finally resting on Reed.

"That means you can go back to what you were doing before," Malcolm quietly explained. "Sit down." Obviously still uncertain, the warrior slowly perched on the edge of the bed with an uncomfortable glance at the others. His eyes met the captain's before he quickly fixed his gaze on to the floor.

Archer approached the alien, standing at the foot of the bed and remaining silent a long while as he studied the uneasy man. "Doctor," he said without looking away from the alien, "has our guest been causing…problems?" He cast a meaningful look first at Rossini then the phase pistol still held loosely in Malcolm's hands.

Phlox gave a hesitant shrug, pursing his lips. "There was a _brief_ bit of tension earlier, but he's feeling far more sociable now."

"Goood…I'm glad to hear that." He slowly shifted his attention to the security team, his voice deceptively jovial. "Mr. Rossini…feeling under the weather?"

"Um…I…" _Damn._ "I'm afraid I let my guard down, sir. Not sure exactly how he did it—I mean, he didn't _hit_ me or anything, he just…knocked me out."

Phlox nodded. "There are no injuries and no signs of any outward trauma, but he was apparently unconscious for several minutes so I'll be keeping an eye on him for a bit longer before releasing him to his quarters. Barring any complications, he should be ready for duty in a few hours."

Hands clasped behind his back Archer nodded his approval, pacing slowly past the foot of Reed's bed, stopped at Saunders' bed, then returned to Malcolm's bed before looking at his Armoury Officer. "Lieutenant," he said almost cheerfully, "mind telling me why you've got a weapon?"

"Oh…um, I uh," Reed stammered as he tried to answer. _'Bloody hell.'_ He'd forgotten he still had the pistol.

"Apologies, _En-tier-přice_ Captain," the G'l Benai interrupted as he stood, "but…I would speak." He finally looked Archer in the eye, waiting for the captain to nod consent before continuing. "He believed that I was attempting to injure Crew-man and sought to protect him, as is the First Duty." He shifted his gaze, looking over the captain's head at the far wall and setting his jaw. "I have been told that you must authorize my execution. First Tactical is awaiting authorization…_that_ is why he still has the weapon in hand."

It took a bit of doing to keep the surprise from showing on his face but Archer succeeded. "Hmm… interesting." He looked around at the others. "Who told him that I had to authorize his execution?"

Atkinson stepped forward and stood at attention. "I did, sir. When he asked Lt. Reed to execute him I, uh, reminded the lieutenant that he needed your permission to proceed."

"Well, _naturally_ he'd need my permission for something _that_ important," Archer replied, trying to sound matter-of-fact. He was starting to look forward to hearing the whole story behind what had been happening down here. "And you want this little _ghallas_ to order your execution?" the captain asked their visitor, somehow keeping his tone neutral as he threw the earlier insult back at the man. When the warrior nodded, eyes still fixed on the opposite side of Sickbay, Archer stepped in close and craned his neck to glare up at the man. "That's very interesting," he purred menacingly, "but I thought _you_ were going to be _my_ executioner."

The alien's eyes left the wall and met Archer's. "I admit that I once hoped to be, but that is not the will of the Ancestors. When I saw that your people had boarded my captain's ship I thought you sought to claim it as your own and that you would defile the bodies of the fallen, so I sought to protect them and _Koshneer_. The Ancestors have provided guidance and I now know that you sought only to render aid. Some would say that my actions were honorable because I strove to fulfill the First Duty, but there is no honor in attacking those who seek to render aid. I have wrongfully attacked your crew and your ship, and in doing so have condemned my captain, his passengers, and crew. Only by accepting whatever punishment you pronounce can my honor be restored. I surrender."

Stepping back, Captain Archer took a moment to think through what the warrior had just said so he could figure out how best to proceed. Probably easiest to take things pretty much in the order they had come, he decided. "If our places had been reversed I would have done anything I could think of to protect my ship and the people on it. I'm glad that your Ancestors helped you figure out that we came here to help. As far as _punishment_ goes," he hesitated, looking at the others, "we don't usually execute people. We don't believe in killing unless we absolutely have to."

Apprehension and disappointment clouded the G'l Benai's features and he closed his eyes, shoulders slumping and ears drooping. He had hoped that Loo-ten-ant had been mistaken, or that _En-tier-přice_ Captain would change his mind…he knew now beyond all doubt that it was not to be. When he finally looked again at the captain his eyes were filled with resignation. "I comprehend. Your First Tactical told me that this would probably be so, and I have already explained to him what captivity does to my people." He drew his shoulders back determinedly, ears perking forward. "If my punishment is to be captivity, so be it. I vow before the Ancestors I shall maintain my control as long as possible. And when my rational mind flees from me, _En-tier-přice_ First Tactical knows what must be done."

"That's…good to know," the captain replied with a 'we'll-talk-later' glance at Reed. "There's only one problem, though. You're a guest, not a prisoner. So unless being our guest is going to adversely affect your rational mind, my…First Tactical…" he shot another look at the lieutenant, "won't need to take any action against you, will he?"

"Guest?" The warrior was incredulous. "I do not comprehend…I assaulted members of your crew, and attacked your ship. Surely there must be some retribution that you demand?"

"I'm not going to punish a man for protecting his fallen crewmates and his captain's ship," Archer stated. Then he again stepped up close to the warrior, tipping his head back to stare up at the man's face with a steely glint in his eyes. "But I _do_ expect you to conduct yourself _as_ a guest while you're here. There will be _no_ more physical altercations with my crewmembers or this little _ghallas_ will personally kick your tail so far up your ass that it'll tickle the roof of your mouth. Do you comprehend?" He sincerely hoped that Hoshi and Travis had gotten it right about officers issuing threats to subordinates, and that he'd not overdone it—if so, he had little doubt that Phlox would soon be mopping him up from several locations throughout Sickbay.

Anticipating that they _had_ been right, he'd expected the man to snap to attention—Malcolm sure as hell would have, and almost did even though he was seated—but instead the G'l Benai shrank away from him, all but cowering as he stared submissively at the floor and answered with a meek, "I comprehend, _En-tier-přice_ Captain."

Relaxing the tiniest bit Jon took a step back. "Good. Now, I have a few questions about your captain and the others. You said you've _condemned_ them, but I don't understand what you mean," Archer admitted, then remembered how the G'l Benai had expressed himself to Trip earlier. "Clarify," he demanded firmly.

"You came to render aid, but I have attacked your crew and ship," the warrior began sorrowfully. "The offer to render aid will be withdrawn. My people's first priority will be to secure our territory, in keeping with the Second Duty. They will only begin a search for my captain and those with him after that task has been completed." His voice trembled ever so slightly. "There were many who were injured…some critically. My captain's First Medical is very well-trained and talented, but without adequate medical equipment…it is doubtful that the more seriously injured will long endure.

"As for the others…it is likely that they will soon begin to feel the strain of confinement. As I have explained to your First Tactical, we cannot endure captivity. It will kill them…all of them…and their innocent blood will be upon me as surely as is the blood of your crewmembers." His eyes filled with tears. "I have cast aside their only chance of survival, and have condemned them to death with my actions against you. Without the aid you would have rendered they will surely die. I have slain my captain and those under his protection."

As the G'l Benai sank back onto the bed and buried his face in his hands Archer stepped away and looked at the others, his stern façade having long since faded. All eyes were on the alien, even Malcolm looking sympathetic to the man's distress. _God, he really thinks we're going to just __abandon__ them,_ Jon thought as he looked back to the distraught warrior.

"_Koshneer_ Third Tactical," Archer said quietly, "look at me." It took a long moment for the man to gather himself and meet his eyes, but the captain patiently waited for him to do so. "I have a question. If Humans had been attacked without cause by a G'l Benai ship—"

"That would _not_ happen," the warrior interrupted, stiffening with indignation. "Only if they entered our territory without authorization would they be attacked, and even then the attack would only be for the purpose of stopping the vessel and ascertaining the reason for the incursion. We would not wantonly attack without cause, and we do _not_ kill civilians—it would be dishonorable."

Archer couldn't contain the sigh that seeped out of him. "I'm speaking hypothetically. What if it _did_ happen? _If_ such an attack were launched by a G'l Benai ship…how would your captain react to hearing about such an attack by one of his fellow captains?"

"His anger would have no limit, I am certain. For one of his fellow captains to issue such an unlawful order would be abhorrent on its own, but that the crew would _obey_ such unlawful orders would be beyond toleration. He would intervene."

"And if he couldn't stop the attack, would he try to help the victims?"

"I am certain that he would, yes."

"Because your captain is an honorable man, isn't he?"

"He is one of the most honorable men I have ever known," the man confirmed, straightening with pride.

"Such an unprovoked attack on civilians would damage the honor of all G'l Benai, wouldn't it?" Archer guessed.

"Yes." There was no hesitation in the firm, deep voice.

"Well, that gives us something in common. Your people think that _all_ Humans are their enemies because of the attack on _Koshneer_. The dishonorable actions of a _few_ of my people have damaged the honor of _all_ of us. I came here to try to make things right—to help your captain as well as prove to your people that not all Humans are their enemies—and I don't intend to leave until I've done that. We couldn't get here in time to stop the attack but we can still try to repair some of the damage that's been done. The offer to render aid is _not_ going to be withdrawn."

The alien stared with slack-jawed disbelief. "You would still render aid, despite my actions against you?" At Archer's silent nod the alien's expression slowly morphed into relieved, happy comprehension, head tipped far back as he broke into grateful laughter. "Do-Veen…they seek to follow the path of Do-Veen," he happily announced to the ceiling.

_'I'm not sure I even want to know what that means,'_ Archer thought. "There's still a bit of a problem," he interrupted the warrior's revelry. "We can't _help_ them if we can't _find_ them, and we're unfamiliar with G'l Benai territory. I'm hoping that you'll be able to help us."

His mirth stilled, the G'l Benai met Archer's gaze with a long, thoughtful silence. "I will do all that I must to aid my captain and those under his protection. And you seek to follow the path of Do-Veen. It would be improper to deny you assistance in that endeavor." Brow furrowing, he considered carefully what needed doing and in what order. These were sensitive matters and had to be tended to properly, after all. The first course of action was obvious. "The first thing I must do is return to my captain's ship," he announced.

"I think not," Malcolm stated firmly, drawing a stern frown from Archer. "Sir, with all due respect, how do we know he won't decide to open fire on us once he gets back there?"

Any response from Archer was cut off by the G'l Benai. "You still do not trust me. Good—now I know that you are an excellent First Tactical, for trust cannot be handed to a person the way you would hand meat to a hungry child. Trust must be earned. You should know that I am not entirely certain that I trust _you_, either." He smiled, eyes twinkling. "But I am willing to begin to make the attempt. To answer your question, you _don't_ know that I will not attack, and I have no way to prove that I will not. All I can do is pledge before my Ancestors that I will behave honorably and cause no further damage or injury to your captain's ship or crew."

The captain cleared his throat to catch the warrior's attention. "Mind telling me why you need to return to _Koshneer_? Or how you're planning to do so? Life support is gone over there, and your EV suit is damaged."

"Eeee-Veee suit? Ahhh," he realized an instant later, "you mean the zero-atmosphere light armor. Very well, then—the first thing I must do is repair my armor. _Then_ I must return to _Koshneer_. From there I can contact my people and try to convince them to not destroy you."

Archer shot Malcolm a 'keep your opinions to yourself' warning look before addressing the alien. "You can contact them from here, you know—we've got a pretty good communications system, and an excellent Communications Officer."

For an instant the soldier thought the man was joking, then realized that the man truly thought that would work. He shook his head. "With respect, _En-tier-přice_ Captain, that will not suffice. The message must be sent from _Koshneer_." Seeing that the Humans were still puzzled, he elaborated. "Unauthorized communication with a non-G'l Benai vessel is forbidden. Any message sent from your ship will be ignored."

Hoshi perked up. "Is that why your captain didn't answer our hails when we tried to contact him?"

"Of course," he nodded. "Even if he had _wanted_ to respond, he could not. Had he done so, his First Tactical would have immediately executed him for treason." He turned his attention back to Archer. "If I attempt to contact my people from your ship, my messages will be ignored and I will be executed as a traitor upon their arrival. Initial contact _must_ be made from my captain's ship, at which time I can secure authorization for future contact with your ship." Sensing their continued uncertainty he pressed forward, risking prolonged eye contact with their captain. "When I spoke earlier of what will happen when my people arrive, I did _not_ exaggerate. Your crew _will_ be annihilated, and I will be condemned as a collaborator and will be killed also. The only good that will come of it is that I will die in the company of honorable people…but that will be of little use to my captain, or to you."

Atkinson broke her silence. "Maybe they don't realize that we're here," she ventured hopefully. "We haven't seen any sign of them yet."

Amused laughter erupted from the warrior. "Apologies," he finally managed, "but…such naiveté was unexpected." Composing himself he smiled gently at the young woman. "There was a scout vessel in contact with my captain. That pilot would have reported all activities—communications, ship movements, everything they have observed—and they would have been ordered to stay nearby and continue reporting any and all activity in the area."

"We would have detected another ship in the area," Malcolm objected, earning another chuckle from their guest.

"The same way you detected _my_ presence on my captain's ship?" he countered. Getting no reply from the little general, his smile broadened slightly and he continued, shifting his attention to the others and speaking as though explaining rudimentary facts to youngsters. "They know you are here, they know this ship is damaged…and they know there is presently no hurry to reach you because they know you cannot leave. So, they will tend to any other Human vessels in our territory before turning their attention to you. And once their attention _is_ upon you, it will be far too late for talk."

"Phlox," Archer said softly, eyes still on the warrior, "where is his armor?"

"Stored with the rest of his personal effects."

"Get it, please." As the doctor went to retrieve the armor, Archer again approached the G'l Benai. "Dr. Phlox won't be happy about you leaving Sickbay before you've fully recovered, so you're not going alone," he announced firmly, ready to counter any objections from either the alien or his own Tactical Officer. "That should help keep the doctor from worrying about you having any health problems while you're there. Besides, you might need some help repairing damage to the communications system over there." Bracing for Reed's inevitable protests, he continued. "Ensign Sato and I will be going with you."

"Captain," Malcolm piped in, "I don't think that's wise. Better to send a security detail with him."

"We're already shorthanded in the Armoury," he gently reminded the lieutenant. "And I'd rather have all available hands working on repairs to weapons and shielding. My decision stands." He looked back to their guest. "Any objections?"

The soldier stared unabashedly into the captain's eyes and liked what he saw there—the Human's gaze had taken on a determined hardness that rivaled the best-tempered sword, reminding him of his own captain. He nodded his satisfaction. "Assistance with repairs to communications would be appreciated," he admitted. "My skills in that area are…mediocre at best. As for repairs to your defensive systems, he offered, looking at Malcolm, "I would respectfully advise that once weapons are repaired they be kept offline. Activating them would be interpreted as an aggressive act." Seeing the disapproving expression on the his former adversary's face, he continued. "Shields are deemed to be a passive system and would be less likely to provoke an…_unpleasant_ reaction from my people. If active weapons are detected it will be assumed that you intend to use them against us."

Already peeved by the captain's decision to accompany the G'l Benai, Malcolm was intensely unhappy with the alien's 'helpful' suggestions. "Are your people always so paranoid?"

The alien's head canted slightly as he considered the man's question. Head finally straightening, he smiled softly at his little general. "You think us overly cautious because we are distrustful of outsiders. Not an unreasonable conclusion…but our distrust is not without cause. Many years ago Klingons entered our territory. At first we thought little of it—other species had traveled in our territory in the past and caused us little concern, so what did it matter that one more traveled within our borders? We discovered our error in judgment after they made it known that they were not simply traveling _th__r__ough_ our territory but that they sought to…_annex_ our territory…to claim it as their own." His voice filled with sarcasm, his lips curling with disgust. "We were to become _subjects_ of their _empire_, our world and our people claimed as their _p__ř__operty_. We chose to…_decline_ their offer.

"But our initial inaction proved costly, for they had already begun to entrench themselves within our territory. It took several years and many thousands of G'l Benai lives to drive them out, and even now they occasionally attempt to again venture into our domain. We vowed that no others would be allowed the same opportunity that our carelessness had given the Klingons. All who now enter our territory are presumed to be aggressive until they prove otherwise; those who are not aggressive may secure permission to travel within our territory, those who _are_ aggressive are dealt with…harshly. So I say again, _En-tier-přice _First Tactical, with respect…activation of weapons will be perceived as aggressive. Shielding will not."

Malcolm tiredly rubbed his good hand over his face. Part of him knew that this fellow really _was_ trying to help but he was having a dashed hard time turning off his _own_ paranoia. Hell, thinking at _all_ was a becoming a bit of a task. "Sorry…I know you've already said you don't want anyone else to get hurt. I just…" Sighing, he let the thought die off.

"I do not comprehend the reason for your apology," his G'l Benai counterpart commented. "You are First Tactical. Trust is not supposed to come easily to you—part of the responsibility of a First Tactical is to see the potential for danger or betrayal and to alert your captain to those potentials. I would be very concerned about you if you did _not_ display…misgivings."

Though he tried, Malcolm couldn't entirely erase the displeasure from his face; he couldn't decide whether he was more annoyed at the prospect of the captain and Hoshi traipsing off to the alien's ship without proper security precautions, or by his former adversary commiserating with him. His scowl deepened as Phlox wheeled in the cart holding the alien's armor.

The doctor looked almost as unhappy as the lieutenant as he stopped the cart in front of the soldier. "Though I acknowledge the need, I _very_ much dislike the idea of you leaving Sickbay before you've fully recovered. I expect you to return here as soon as you finish doing what you need to do over there."

"Of course. Your captain has already told me you would be displeased by my departure, so he and First Communication intend to accompany me."

Surprised, Phlox looked at Archer and relaxed oh-so slightly. "Well, that _should_ be sufficient," he consented doubtfully, "but I still want you back here as soon as you're finished. Sooner if there are any problems."

"Don't worry," the captain assured him. "We'll take good care of him."

"I appreciate that—I'd hate for him to undo my hard work." He motioned to the cart's contents. "I wasn't sure what you'd need to repair the damage, so I took the liberty of contacting Engineering and explaining what you needed to do. Someone should be here soon with the necessary materials." He hesitated a moment before adding, "I didn't get a chance to completely tidy up the inside."

The warrior nodded his approval as he surveyed the armor, trying to ignore the smell coming from it. "Thank you for your assistance. It is my armor, and cleaning it is my responsibility…but if you have some sort of cleaning agents suitable for the task, it would be appreciated."

"Of course. I'll see to it shortly. First, though," Phlox smiled faintly as he turned his attention to Ensign Rossini, "let's see about getting you out of here, young man." After a few passes with the hand scanner his smile broadened. "Ms. Atkinson, would you do me the favor of seeing Mr. Rossini to his quarters?"

Miranda hesitated, shooting a quick glance at their guest before looking uncertainly at Malcolm. "Sir?"

He started to tell her to go ahead then caught himself. "Don't ask _me_," he quipped with a faint smirk and a nod toward the doctor. "He hasn't declared me medically fit for duty, so it's not my call." With a quick glance at the alien Reed thrust the pistol toward Rossini. "Probably best to give this back to you…just to help me avoid temptation."

Exchanging a look with Keith, Miranda stifled her own smile and escorted Rossini through the door. Moments after they left the doors reopened to admit the Chief Engineer carrying a toolbox.

Ears flattened back against his head the G'l Benai leapt from his bed, hissing and baring his teeth. Before anyone could react he raced across Sickbay and stopped mere inches from Tucker. Glaring down at the engineer, the growling warrior raised his hand, claws fully extended.

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Slowly retracting his claws the soldier balled his bandaged hand into a tight fist and extended his index finger at the engineer's face. "I have promised your captain that I will not engage in any further physical altercations with his crew," he growled angrily as he glared down at the man. "He requires this of me so I shall comply. _But_," he warned, the claw of his index finger again slowly extending until it almost touched the tip of Trip's nose, "to the best of my knowledge he does _not_ require that I _like_ you."

"That's enough!" Archer snapped as he stormed toward the men. A glance from Trip stopped him midway.

"S'okay, Captain," Tucker said softly. "After the stuff I said to him, I figure he's got a right ta be sore at me." Crouching slowly, he set the toolbox on the floor then straightened with equal care and met the alien's glowering gaze apologetically. "When I was here before, I got pretty angry atcha—you'd attacked my crewmates, people I know, people I _care_ about, and you damn near killed them—an' because I was angry I said stuff that I shouldn't have. I didn't think about the fact that you'd just got through watchin' people _you_ care about get hurt, too, an' that some of them _did_ get killed. Can't really blame you for holdin' a grudge, an' I don't expect that we'll ever be best friends or anything, but I'm hopin' that by the time we finish helpin' your people you'll be willing to accept an apology from me."

Withdrawing his finger, the G'l Benai straightened and intently studied the man as his animal and rational minds briefly quarreled—his rational mind reminded him of his promise to _En-tier-přice_ captain and urged him to ignore this insignificant, unworthy creature and walk away, while his animal mind wanted the satisfaction of disemboweling the vulgar beast before him. At last squelching the desires of his animal mind he wrinkled his nose disdainfully. "Doubtful," he softly rumbled before taking a step back.

Trip nodded. "Kinda what I figured, an' I can't fault ya for it. But even if ya don't wanna accept an apology, maybe you'd at least accept my condolences on the loss of your family." He waited a moment as he tried to gauge the alien's mood before deciding to risk saying more. "I, uh…I know you were worried that we'd do something to their bodies, or that we'd done something to 'em already…but nobody's touched 'em, an' nobody's going to."

The warrior's nostrils flared as he sniffed the air for the scent of deception coming from the man. It surprised him that there was no change in odor—he'd been so _certain_ that the fallen would have been subjected to untold defilements at the hands of these aliens, and even more certain that this honorless _pahthi_ would be incapable of truthfulness. Even with his nose verifying what he'd been told he craved further confirmation, so he looked over his shoulder at Archer. "This is correct?"

"Yes. We don't make trophies out of people's bodies, or parts of their bodies. When we go over there to start repairs the remains of your friends and family members will be shown the highest level of respect, and any member of my crew who fails to do so will answer to me." He stepped between the men and fixed a fierce look on the warrior. "Now, are you finished trying to intimidate my engineer, or am I gonna have to climb up there and start plucking your whiskers out by the roots?"

"_Trying_ to intimidate?" Trip whispered under his breath.

Ignoring the comment, the warrior canted his head slightly and bowed respectfully toward the captain. "Removal of my whiskers will not be necessary, _En-tier-přice_ Captain." Still not quite willing to expose his back to the man, he took several backward steps away from Tucker. "I shall comply." He considered what these people would need to know about respectful treatment of the fallen. "As to the remains…they must not be touched," the G'l Benai said softly. "For any reason. They must be left where they have fallen until the proper protocols can be followed. Only members of their families or battle brethren may touch them. If there are none of these available, those from their home province may touch them but only if absolutely necessary. Any others who touch them will die."

"I'll let my people know that they can't touch the bodies," Archer assured him, "but I hope you don't expect me to kill anyone who mistakenly come into contact with them."

"You will not have to," the warrior stated flatly. "The scent of death is very strong, and lingers a long while. If the bodies are touched, we will know, and the families of the fallen will seek their own justice."

Archer risked a small, crooked smile and hoped it looked convincing. "Well, since no one's going to touch them, we're not going to have to worry about that. Now, if Commander Tucker is done here," Archer cast a meaningful look at the engineer, "he needs to get back to work. If you need anything else for your repairs let the doctor know and he'll contact Engineering for you. As for me, I've got a ship to run, so unless there's anything else you need to discuss with me, I'll be leaving too."

The warrior pondered what else needed to be done to increase these people's chances of not only success but survival. "There _is_ one other thing," he said slowly. "A small...formality." He waited respectfully for a reply.

"What _kind_ of formality?" Archer asked.

"You must yield your ship." Objections from Trip and Malcolm were immediate, loud, and simultaneous.

"You gotta be _kidding_! That's one hell of a formality—no _way_ are you gettin' this ship!"

"If you think for an instant that we're just going to hand the ship over to you you're out of your bloody _mind_!"

Their protests went on until Archer held up a hand to silence them. "I'm inclined to agree with my men—I have no intention of surrendering to you or anyone else."

The warrior's brow furrowed in puzzlement. "Surrender? _En-tier-přice_ First Communications," he looked at Hoshi, "I do not comprehend. Why does your captain think I want to kill him?"

Glancing back at her UT, Hoshi looked first at the alien then her captain. "Sir, some of our words don't mean quite the same thing in his language. It looks like 'surrender' is what they do when they willingly give themselves to be killed. Remember, Lieutenant, how he said he surrendered when he wanted you to execute him?"

"That's right, he did," Malcolm confirmed.

"So," Trip asked, "what does 'yield' mean?" Sato's uncertain shrug didn't inspire much hope.

Jon was still studying their guest. "What _does_ it mean?"

"Yield means yield," the G'l Benai answered. "What else would it mean?" Seeing that they still didn't comprehend, he tried a different approach. "It is a way to acknowledge an honorable defeat in battle. I fired upon your ship and caused sufficient damage to be considered the victor. By yielding you are admitting that I was victorious and promising that you will not engage in further hostilities against the G'l Benai."

"_We_ didn't engage in hostilities against you to _begin_ with, "Malcolm objected loudly, "and I'm getting a bit tired of having to repeatedly _explain_ that to you!"

"Settle down, Mr. Reed," Archer warned softly before returning his full attention to the alien. "I'm still not entirely certain that it's a good idea. Why don't you try to convince me?"

The frown of concentration slowly eased off the felinoid face and a slow smile took its place. "You desire a display of trust from me, yes?" Archer nodded cautiously and the soldier continued. "I am willing to attempt this, but I ask _you_ for display of trust in return. All that is required is for you to say the words, to yield your ship. As I have said, it is a formality...but it is a formality that will prove helpful to both of us."

A long, painful silence followed as the captain thought it through. "Very well," he said at last. "I yield my ship."

The warrior snapped to full attention, all seriousness, then bowed with a slight cant of his head and stared unblinking into the Human captain's eyes. "On behalf of my captain, I accept." After a few seconds he relaxed, cracking another slight smile as he nodded his satisfaction. There was no turning back now. "It is done, _En-tier-přice_ Captain. Now, you have said that you must tend to your ship, and I must begin repairs so that I can contact my people and convince them to not kill your people." As he watched the men and woman walk toward the door another thought sprang to his mind. "Thelik," he stated.

They turned to face him and Archer spoke. "Excuse me?"

"When you were here earlier, you asked my name but I answered with only my rank and position. I think that, if I am going to trust you with my life, perhaps I should also trust you with my name. I am called Thelik."

Jon allowed himself a smile. "Pleased to meet you. My name is Jonathan Archer." Their guest again nodded before retrieving the toolbox and pushing the cart holding his EV suit toward his bed. _'Finally, things are starting to go right,' Archer thought. 'Wonder how long that will last? '_

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End file.
